■ 


I 


FROM   THE  LIBRARY  OF 
REV.   LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,   D.  D. 

BEQUEATHED    BY   HIM   TO 

THE   LIBRARY  OF 

PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


section       aac^'j 


THE  COMPLETE  POEMS  OF 
ANNE   BRONTE 


V 


OCT  19  1933 


^ 


K- 


(TT'he    Complete    Toems  ^^g/ 

ANNE  BRONTE,  Edited 
^/  Clement  Shorter,  now  for 
the  first  time  collected,  with  a 
Bibliographical  Introduction  by 
C.  W.  Hatfield      v       f       r 


7VW    N(jyr     2~(?r/£ 

George  H.  Doran  Company 


Made  and  Printed  in  Great  Britain. 
T.  and  A.  Constable  Ltd.,  Printers,  Edinburgh. 


INTRODUCTION  1 
By  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE 

In  looking  over  my  sister  Anne's  papers,  I  find 
mournful  evidence  that  religious  feeling  had  been 
to  her  but  too  much  like  what  it  was  to  Cowper ; 
I  mean,  of  course,  in  a  far  milder  form.  Without 
rendering  her  a  prey  to  those  horrors  that  defy 
concealment,  it  subdued  her  mood  and  bearing 
to  a  perpetual  pensiveness  ;  the  pillar  of  a  cloud 
glided  constantly  before  her  eyes ;  she  ever 
waited  at  the  foot  of  a  secret  Sinai,  listening  in 
her  heart  to  the  voice  of  a  trumpet  sounding  long 
and  waxing  louder.  Some,  perhaps,  would  re- 
joice over  these  tokens  of  sincere  though  sorrow- 
ing piety  in  a  deceased  relative  :  I  own,  to  me 
they  seem  sad,  as  if  her  whole  innocent  life  had 
been  passed  under  the  martyrdom  of  an  uncon- 
fessed  physical  pain  :  their  effect,  indeed,  would 
be  too  distressing,  were  it  not  combated  by  the 
certain  knowledge  that  in  her  last  moments  this 
tyranny  of  a  too  tender  conscience  was  overcome  ; 
this  pomp  of  terrors  broke  up,  and,  passing  away, 

1  Prefixed  to  Selections  from  Poems  by  Acton  Bell,  first  published  in 
the  1850  edition  of  Wuthering  Heights  and  Agnes  Greg. 

V 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

left  her  dying  hour  unclouded.  Her  belief  in 
God  did  not  then  bring  to  her  dread,  as  of  a  stern 
Judge — but  hope,  as  in  a  Creator  and  Saviour  : 
and  no  faltering  hope  was  it,  but  a  sure  and 
steadfast  conviction,  on  which,  in  the  rude 
passage  from  Time  to  Eternity,  she  threw  the 
weight  of  her  human  weakness,  and  by  which  she 
was  enabled  to  bear  what  was  to  be  borne, 
patiently — serenely — victoriously. 


vt 


A  BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION 

In  this  collection  of  the  poems  of  Anne  Bronte 
the  whole  of  her  published  poems  are  brought 
together  for  the  first  time  in  a  single  volume. 

There  are  fifty-four  poems  altogether,  and  of 
these  Anne  Bronte  published  only  twenty-four. 

To  the  first  book  published  by  the  three 
sisters,  Charlotte,  Emily,  and  Anne  Bronte, 
Poems  by  Currer,  Ellis,  and  Acton  Bell,  Anne 
contributed  twenty-one  poems.  This  was  the 
little  volume,  published  in  1846,  of  which  only 
two  copies  were  sold,  and  which  is  now  so  prized 
that  an  amount  equal  to  the  total  cost  of  pro- 
duction of  the  whole  first  edition  can  be  easily 
obtained  for  a  single  copy. 

One  poem  appears  in  Anne's  novel,  Agnes  Grey, 
and  another  in  that  of  her  second  and  last  novel, 
The  Tenant  of  Wildfell  Hall ;  in  which  book  (vol. 
ii.  p.  41)  appears  also  a  single  verse  which  may 
or  may  not  have  been  composed  by  her.  Here  is 
the  verse  : — 

1  Stop,  poor  sinner,  stop  and  think 
Before  you  further  go  ; 
No  longer  sport  upon  the  brink 
Of  everlasting  woe.' 

vii 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

The  last  poem  published  by  Anne  Bronte  was 
'  The  Three  Guides,'  which  appeared  in  the 
August,  1848,  number  of  Fraser's  Magazine. 

Mrs.  Gaskell,  in  her  Life  of  Charlotte  Bronte, 
1857,  vol.  i.  p.  343,  records  a  short  conversation 
between  Anne  Bronte  and  a  friend,  who 

'  saw  Anne  with  a  number  of  Chambers's  Journal,  and  a 
gentle  smile  of  pleasure  stealing  over  her  placid  face  as 
she  read. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  asked  the  friend.  "  Why 
do  you  smile  ?  " 

"  Only  because  I  see  they  have  inserted  one  of  my 
poems,"  was  the  quiet  reply.' 

No  poem  by  Anne  Bronte  has  been  found  in 
Chambers's  Journal.  On  p.  300  of  the  Haworth 
edition  of  The  Life  of  Charlotte  Bronte,  1900,  there 
is  a  note  by  Mr.  Clement  Shorter,  in  which  we  are 
informed  that  the  editor  of  Chambers's  Journal, 
Mr.  C.  E.  S.  Chambers,  had  endeavoured,  without 
success,  to  identify  Anne's  poem ;  and  Mr.  T.  J. 
Wise,  in  his  Bibliography  of  the  Brontes,  1917, 
p.  215,  informs  us  that 

4  A  minute  and  careful  search  through  the  pages  of 
the  Journal  has  failed  to  discern  a  single  poem  which 
could  by  any  possibility  be  attributed  to  Anne.' 

My  own  opinion  is  that,  if  the  incident  recorded 
by    Mrs.    Gaskell    is    true,    the    name    Fraser's 
viii 


INTRODUCTION 

Magazine  should  be  substituted  for  Chambers's 
Journal ;  although  I  can  find  no  record  of  any 
meeting  between  Anne  Bronte  and  Ellen  Nussey 
(the  friend  mentioned  by  Mrs.  Gaskell)  about 
the  time  that '  The  Three  Guides  '  was  printed. 

In  the  year  1850,  a  little  more  than  twelve 
months  after  Anne  Bronte  died,  nine  poems  by 
her,  of  which  seven  were  unpublished,  were 
selected  by  Charlotte  Bronte  for  publication  in 
a  new  edition  of  Wuihering  Heights  and  Agnes 
Grey. 

The  remaining  twenty-three  '  unpublished  ' 
poems  have  been  printed  during  the  last  twenty 
years.  Most  of  them  have  appeared  in  limited 
editions  only,  and  are  now  reprinted  for  the  first 
time. 

In  her  novel,  Agnes  Grey,  Anne  Bronte  says  : — 

4  When  we  are  harassed  by  sorrows  or  anxieties,  or 
long  oppressed  by  any  powerful  feelings  which  we  must 
keep  to  ourselves,  for  which  we  can  obtain  or  seek  no 
sympathy  from  any  living  creature,  and  which  yet  we 
cannot,  or  will  not  wholly  crush,  we  often  naturally  seek 
relief  in  poetry  .  .  .  whether  in  the  effusions  of  others, 
which  seem  to  harmonise  with  our  own  existing  case,  or 
in  our  own  attempts  to  give  utterance  to  those  thoughts 
and  feelings  in  strains  less  musical,  perchance,  but  more 
appropriate,  and  therefore  more  penetrating  and  sym- 
pathetic, and  for  the  time  more  soothing,  or  more  power- 
ful to  rouse  and  to  unburden  the  oppressed  and  swollen 

b  ix 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

heart.  ...  I  had  sought  relief  twice  or  thrice  at  this 
secret  source  of  consolation,  and  now  I  flew  to  it  again 
with  greater  avidity  than  ever,  because  I  seemed  to 
need  it  more.  .  .  .  Lest  the  reader  should  be  curious  to 
see  any  of  these  effusions  I  will  favour  him  with  one 
short  specimen  :  cold  and  languid  as  the  lines  may 
seem,  it  was  almost  a  passion  of  grief  to  which  they  owed 
their  being  : — 

"  Oh,  they  have  robbed  me  of  the  hope  " 

[see  p.  95]. 

'  Yes,  at  least  they  could  not  deprive  me  of  that :  I 
could  think  of  him  day  and  night ;  and  I  could  feel  that 
he  was  worthy  to  be  thought  of.  Nobody  knew  him 
as  I  did  ;  nobody  could  appreciate  him  as  I  did  ;  nobody 

could  love  him  as  I could,  if  I  might  :  but  there 

was  the  evil.  .  .  .  Yet,  if  I  found  such  deep  delight  in 
thinking  of  him,  and  if  I  kept  those  thoughts  to  myself, 
and  troubled  no  one  else  with  them,  where  was  the 
harm  of  it  ?  .  .  .' 

In  August  1839,  a  few  years  before  the  fore- 
going extract  was  written,  there  arrived  in 
Ha  worth  '  a  lively,  handsome  young  man,  fresh 
from  Durham  University.'  This  was  the  Rev. 
William  Weightman,  whom  Charlotte  Bronte  in 
one  of  her  letters  calls  'our  bonny-faced  friend 
the  curate  of  Ha  worth,'  and  in  another  writes 
of  him  as  being  '  as  bonny,  pleasant,  light- 
hearted,  good-tempered,  careless,  fickle,  and  un- 
clerical  as  ever.'  During  the  ensuing  three  years 
x 


INTRODUCTION 

the  sombre  atmosphere  of  Haworth  Parsonage 
was  dispelled  by  the  constant  visits  of  this  gay- 
young  clergyman.  The  incumbent's  daughters 
were  kept  in  a  continual  flutter  of  excitement, 
and  there  is  no  doubt  that  he  was  more  than 
ordinarily  attentive  to  Anne. 

Charlotte  says  in  one  of  her  letters,  '  He  sits 
opposite  to  Anne  at  church,  sighing  softly,  and 
looking  out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes,  and  Anne 
is  so  quiet,  her  look  so  downcast,  they  are  a 
picture.' 

But  Anne  was  not  allowed  to  remain  long  at 
home  and  enjoy  such  pleasant  company.  Early 
in  the  year  1841  she  commenced  her  duties  as  a 
governess  at  Thorp  Green,  near  York,  and  soon 
afterwards  she  wrote  her  pathetic  little  outcry, 
1  Appeal ' ;  and  probably  the  verses  included  in 
Agnes  Grey  belong  to  this  time,  although  in  the 
chronological  table  the  year  assigned  to  them  is 
that  in  which  the  novel  was  written. 

This  one  little  romance  of  Anne's  was  soon 
ended.  On  the  6th  September  1842  the  Rev. 
William  Weightman  died  after  a  very  short  ill- 
ness, and  a  few  days  afterwards  was  buried  in 
the  north  aisle  of  Haworth  Church. 

That  Anne  did  not  forget  him  as  the  years  went 
by  may  be  gathered  from  her  poems,  '  A  Remi- 
niscence,' '  Night,'  and  4  Severed  and  gone  ' ;  and, 

xi 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

in  permitting  herself  to  dwell  on  the  c  might- 
have-beens  '  of  life,  he  became  the  '  Rev.  Edward 
Weston,'  and  she  the  '  Agnes  Grey  '  of  her  first 
novel. 

For  the  whole  of  the  previously  unpublished 
material  which  this  book  contains,  such  as  dates 
of  poems,  variations  in  words  and  lines,  and 
additional  lines  and  stanzas,  I  am  indebted  to 
Mr.  Clement  Shorter,  the  owner  of  the  copyright 
of  the  unpublished  Bronte  manuscripts,  who 
with  characteristic  generosity  sent  me  all  his 
typewritten  transcripts  of  Anne  Bronte's  poems 
copied  from  the  author's  original  manuscripts. 

I  must  also  acknowledge  my  indebtedness  to 
Mr.  T.  J.  Wise  for  the  help  which  I  have  received 
from  his  wonderfully  complete  and  accurate  book, 
A  Bibliography  of  the  Writings  in  Prose  and  Verse 
of  the  Members  of  the  Bronte  Family,  published 
in  1917. 

All  the  poems  by  Anne  Bronte  enumerated  by 
Mr.  Wise  in  the  bibliography  are  included  in 
this  collection  of  her  poems.  My  own  search 
for  others  has  proved  fruitless  ;  and  I  am  quite 
sure  that  if  there  had  been  any  Mr.  Wise  would 
have  found  them. 

C.  W.  HATFIELD. 

June  26,  1920. 

xii 


CON  T ENTS 


The  letters  in  the  first  column  refer  to  the  looks  enumerated  in 
the  bibliographical  list  on  pp.  xviii-xxii,  and  indicate  the  publica- 
tions in  which  the  poems  by  Anne  Bronte  were  first  printed. 


A.D. 

1833 
January  24 


January  26 

July  9 

July  10 

August  21 

1840 

January  1 

g     August  22 


1841 
January  1 


18  THE     CAPTAIN'S     DREAM.        Me- 

thought  I  saw  him,  but  I  knew  him 
not 

„     THE  NORTH  WIND.       That  wind  is 
from  the  North  :  I  know  it  well 

,;     THE     PARTING.      1.    The    chestnut 
steed  stood  by  the  gate    . 

„     THE     PARTING.      2.    The    lady    of 
Abyerno's  hall  .... 

„     VERSES  TO   A   CHILD.     Oh,    raise 
tho^e  eyes  to  me  again     . 

19  SELF-CONGRATULATION.     'Ellen, 

you  were  thoughtless  once 

20  THE  BLUEBELL.     A  fine  and  subtle 

spirit  dwells    ..... 

„     AN    ORPHAN'S    LAMENT.       She's 

gone  ;  and  twice  the  summer's  sun 


August  19        21 


August  28 
December  20 


LINES  WRITTEN  AT  THORP 
GREEN.  That  summer  sun,  whose 
genial  glow      ..... 

APPEAL.     Oh,  I  am  very  weary 

DESPONDENCY.  I  have  gone  back- 
ward in  the  work     .... 

xiii 


11 

14 
17 
20 

23 

25 

26 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

A.D.  .r/r.  PAGE 

1842 
a     November  10   22     TO  COWPER.     Sweet  are  thy  strains. 

Celestial  Hard  ....       28 

e  November  10  „  IN  MEMORY  OF  A  HAPPY  DAY 
IN  FEBRUARY.  Blessed  be  Thou 
for  all  the  joy  ....       31 

a  December  30  „  LINES  COMPOSED  IN  A  WOOD 
ON  A  WINDY  DAY.     My  soul  is 

awakened,  my  spirit  is  soaring1         .       34 
1843 
a      May  28  23     A  WORD  TO  THE  'ELECT.'     You 

may    rejoice     to     think     yourselves 
secure      ......       35 

a      September  10   „     THE  DOUBTER'S  PRAYER.   Eternal 

Power,  of  earth  and  air  !  38 

a  October  31  „  THE  CAPTIVE  DOVE.  Poor  rest- 
less dove,  I  pity  thee       ...       41 

a      November  7      „     THE  CONSOLATION.    Though  bleak 

these  woods,  and  damp  the  ground       43 

a      November  21    „      PAST  DAYS.     Tis   strange  to   think 

there  was  a  time      ....       45 
1844 
a      February—     24     THE    STUDENT'S    SERENADE.      I 

have  slept  upon  my  couch        .         .       47 

a      April  —  „      A    REMINISCENCE.     Yes,   thou   art 

gone  !  and  never  more     .         .         .50 

a      May  19  „      MEMORY.     Brightly  the  sun  of  sum- 

mer shone        .  .         .         .51 

a      August  2  „     FLUCTUATIONS.     What  though  the 

Sun  had  left  my  sky         ...       54 

e      October  13        „      A  PRAYER.     My  God  (oh,  let  me  call 

Thee  mine       .....       56 

xiv 


CONTENTS 


A.D.  MT.  PAGE 

1844 
i      December  16    24    THE     DUNGEON.       Though    not    a 

breath  can  enter  here      ...       57 

a  c.  1844  ,,      HOME.     How   brightly  glistening   in 

__,„  the  sun 59 

1845 

j      January  24       25     CALL   ME   AWAY.      Call   me  away, 

there's  nothing  here        ...       61 

i      March  „     NIGHT.      I   love   the   silent  hour   of 

night 65 

i      Spring  „     DREAMS.     While  on  my  lonely  couch 

Hie 66 

a     May  20  „     IF  THIS  BE  ALL.     O   God !   if  this 

indeed  be  all 68 

e     June  1  „     CONFIDENCE.      Oppressed  with   sin 

and  woe 70 

a     June  —  „     VIEWS  OF  LIFE.     When  sinks  my 

heart  in  hopeless  gloom  .         .         .72 

g     September  3     „     SONG.     We  know  where  deepest  lies 

the  snow 80 

g     September  4     ,,     SONG.    Come  to  the  banquet ;  triumph 

in  your  songs  !         ....       82 

a  September  4  „  VANITAS  VANITATUM,  OMNIA 
VANITAS.  In  all  we  do,  and  hear, 
and  see    ......       84 

a     October  1  „     STANZAS.     Oh,  weep  not,  love  !  each 

tear  that  springs       ....       87 

a  —  „     THE  PENITENT.    I  mourn  with  thee, 

and  yet  rejoice         ....       89 

XV 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

A.D.  AIT. 

a         c.  1845  25     THE  ARBOUR.     I  '11  rest  me  in  this 

sheltered  bower 

a         c.  1845  „     MUSIC  ON  CHRISTMAS  MORNING 

Music  I  love — but  never  strain 

h         c.  1845  „     There  let  thy  bleeding  branch  atone 


90 

92 
94 
95 


b         c.  1845  ,,      Oh,  they  have  robbed  me  of  the  hope 

1846 
e      May  11  26    DOMESTIC    PEACE.      Why    should 

such  gloomy  silence  reign        .         .       96 

g     July  15  „     MIRTH  AND  MOURNING.    Oh !  cast 

away  your  sorrow    ....       98 

g     July  20  „      Weep  not  too  much,  my  darling  .     101 

j      August  13         „     THE     POWER    OF     LOVE.      Love, 

indeed  thy  strength  is  mighty  .     104 

i      September  12    „      I  DREAMT  LAST  NIGHT.     I  dreamt 

last  night,  and  in  that  dream  .         .     107 

j      October—        „     THE   LOVER.     Gloomily  the   clouds 

are  sailing 114 

1847 
i      April—  27     SEVERED  AND  GONE.    Severed  and 

gone,  so  many  years       .         .         .       116 

d     August  11         „     THE     THREE    GUIDES.      Spirit    of 

Earth  !  thy  hand  is  chill  .         .     119 

c      c.  1847  „      Farewell  to  thee !  but  not  farewell        .     129 

1848 
f     April  17  28     SELF-COMMUNION.      'The  mist  is 

resting  on  the  hill  ....     131 

xvi 


CONTENTS 


A.D.  AT.  PAGE 

1848 

e      April  27  28    THE  NARROW   WAY.     Believe  not 

those  who  say  ....     145 

1849  J 

i      January  26       29     FRAGMENT.     Yes,  I  will  take  a  cheer- 
ful tone 1 47 

e      January  28       „      LAST  LINES.     I  hoped,  that  with  the 

brave  and  strong     ....     148 


XV11 


A  BIBLIOGRAPHY  OF  THE  COMPLETE 

POEMS  OF  ANNE   BRONTE 

(ACTON   BELL) 

Born  at  Thornton,  near  Bradford,Yorkshire,  January  17,1 820. 
Died  at  Scarborough,  Yorkshire,  May  28,  1849. 

Note. — The  books,  pamphlets,  periodicals,   etc.,  mentioned  in  the 
following  list  are  those  in  which  the  poems  indicated  were  first  printed. 

(a) 
Poems  by  Currer,  Ellis,  and  Acton  Bell. 

London :    Aylott  and  Jones,   8,  Paternoster 
Row.     1846. 
Poems  by  Acton  Bell : 


PAGE 


1  A   Reminiscence.      Yes,  thou  art  gone !    and   never  more 

(p.  10) 50 

2  The  Arbour.     I  '11  rest  me  in  this  sheltered  bower,  (p.  26)   .  90 

3  Home.     How  brightly  glistening  in  the  sun  (p.  27)       .         .  59 

4  Vanitas  Vanitatum,  Omnia  Vanitas.    In  all  we  do,  and  hear, 

and  see,  (pp.  33,  34) 84 

5  The  Penitent.      I  mourn  with  thee,  and  yet  rejoice  (p.  44)  89 

6  Music  on  Christmas  Morning.      Music  I  love — but  never 

strain  (p.  45) 92 

7  Stanzas.     Oh,  weep  not,  love  !  each  tear  that  springs  (p.  59)  87 

8  If  this  be  all.     O  God  !  if  this  indeed  be  all  (p.  80)  .         .  68 

9  Memory.     Brightly  the  sun  of  summer  shone,  (pp.  83-85)     .  51 

10  To  Cowper.    Sweet  are  thy  strains,  Celestial  Bard;  (pp.  92, 93)  28 

11  The  Doubter's  Prayer.     Eternal  Power,  of  earth  and  air! 

(pp.  97-99) 38 

12  A  Word  to  the  '  Elect.'     You  may  rejoice  to  think  your- 

selves secure,  (pp.  104-106) 35 

13  Past  Days.     'Tis  strange  to  think,  there  was  a  time  (p.  Ill)  45 

14  The  Consolation.      Though  bleak  those  woods,  and  damp 

the  ground  (p.  120) 43 

xviii 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

PAGE 

15  Lines  Composed  in  a  Wood  on  a  Windy  Day.     My  soul 

is  awakened,  my  spirit  is  soaring  (p.  125)        .         .         .34 

16  Views  of  Life.     When  sinks  my  heart  in  hopeless  gloom, 

(pp.  129-136) 72 

17  Appeal.     Oh,  I  am  very  weary,  (p.  140)       .         .         .         .25 

18  The   Student's   Serenade.     I  have  slept  upon  my  couch, 

(pp.  143-144) .47 

19  The  Captive  Dove.     Poor  restless  dove,  I  pity  thee ;  (pp. 

149-150) 41 

20  Self-Congratulation.     '  Ellen,  you  were  thoughtless  once 

(pp.  155-156) .  14 

21  Fluctuations.     What  though  the  Sun  had  left  my  sky  ;  (pp. 

164-165) 54 


(b) 

Wuthering  Heights  and  Agnes  Grey.      In  three 

volumes. 
London :  Thomas  Cautley  Newby,  Publisher, 

72,  Mortimer  St.,  Cavendish  Sq.     1847. 
Volume  III.     Agnes  Grey.     By  Acton  Bell. 

Chapter  xvii. 

22  Oh,  they  have  robbed  me  of  the  hope  (p.  268)       .         .         .95 

(c) 
The  Tenant  of  Wildfell  Hall.     In  three  volumes. 
By  Acton  Bell. 
London:  T.  C.  Newby, Publisher, 72, Mortimer 

Street,  Cavendish  Square.     1848. 
Volume  I. 

23  Farewell  to  thee  !  but  not  farewell  (pp.  349-350)  .         .         .129 

(d) 
Frasers  Magazine.     August  1848. 

24  The  Three  Guides.     Spirit  of  Earth  !  thy  hand  is  chill  : 

(pp.  193-195) 119 

xix 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

(e) 

PAGE 

Wuthering  Heights  and  Agnes  Grey.  By  Ellis 
and  Acton  Bell.  A  New  Edition  revised, 
with  ...  A  Selection  from  their  Literary 
Remains. 
London:  Smith,  Elder,  and  Co.,  65,  Cornhill. 
1850. 

Poems  by  Acton  Bell : 

25  Despondency.     I  have  gone  backward  in  the  work  ;  (p. 491)      26 

26  A  Prayer.     My  God,  (oh,  let  me  call  Thee  mine,  (p.  492)      56 

27  In  Memory  of  a  Happy  Day  in  February.      Blessed  be 

Thou  for  all  the  joy  (p.  492) 31 

28  Confidence.     Oppressed  with  sin  and  woe,  (p.  494)      .         «  70 

29  The  Narrow  Way.     Believe  not  those  who  say  (p.  496)     .  145 

30  Domestic  Peace.     Why  should  such  gloomy  silence  reign, 

(p.  497) 96 

31  I  hoped,  that  with  the  brave  and  strong,  (p.  503)  .         .         .  148 


(0 
Self -Communion.      A  Poem  by  Anne  Bronte. 
Edited  by  Thomas  J.  Wise. 
London  :  Privately  printed.     1900. 
Edition  limited  to  Thirty  Copies. 

32  Self-Communion.    The  mist  is  resting  on  the  hill ;  (pp.  11-40)  131 

(g) 

Poems  by  Charlotte,  Emily,  and  Anne  Bronte. 

New    York :    Dodd,    Mead,    and   Company. 
1902.     Edition  limited  to  110  copies. 
Poems  by  Anne  Bronte  : 

33  The  Captain's  Dream.     Methought  I  saw  him,  but  I  knew 

him  not,  (pp.  185-186)   . 1 

34  The  North  Wind.     That  wind  is  from  the  North,  I  know 

it  well.  (pp.  187-188) 3 

XX 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 


PAGE 


35  The   Parting.     1.  The   chestnut  steed  stood  by  the  gate, 

(pp.  189-191) 5 

36  The  Parting.     2.  The  lady  of  Abyerno's  hall,  (pp.  192-194)      8 

37  Verses  to  a  Child.     O  raise  those  eyes  to  me  again,  (pp. 

195-197) 11 

38  The  Bluebell.     A  fine  and  subtle  spirit  dwells  (pp.  198-200)     17 

39  An  Orphan's  Lament.    She 's  gone — and  twice  the  summer's 

sun  (pp.  201-203) 20 

40  Lines  written  at  Thorp  Green.     That  summer  sun  whose 

genial  glow,  (pp.  204-205) 23 

41  Song.     We  know  where  deepest  lies  the  snow,  (p.  206)  .     80 

42  Song.     Come  to  the  banquet ;  triumph  in  your  songs  !  (pp. 

207-208) 82 

43  Mirth  and  Mourning.     Oh  !  cast  away  your  sorrow  ; — (pp. 

209-211) .         .         .98 

44  Weep  not  too  much,  my  darling  ;  (pp.  212-214)    .         .         .   101 


(h) 

The  Complete  Poems  of  Emily  Bronte, 

London  :  Hodder  and  Stoughton.     1910. 
Edition  limited  to  1000  copies. 

Poem  by  Anne  Bronte  (see  note  on  p.  94)  : 

45    There  let  thy  bleeding  branch  atone  (p.  251)        .         .         .94 


0) 
Bronte  Poems.     Edited  by  Arthur  C.  Benson. 

London :  Smith,  Elder  &  Co.,  15,  Waterloo 
Place.     1915. 

Poems  by  Anne  Bronte  : 

46  The  Dungeon.     Though  not  a  breath  can  enter  here,  (pp. 

291-293) 57 

47  Night.     I  love  the  silent  hour  of  night,  (p.  294)  .         .         .65 

48  Dreams.     While  on  my  lonely  couch  I  lie,  (pp.  295-296)      .     66 

49  I  dreamt  last  night,  and  in  that  dream  (pp.  299-303)     .         .  107 

50  Severed  and  gone,  so  many  years,  (pp.  304-305)    .         .         .116 

51  Fragment.     Yes,  I  will  take  a  cheerful  tone  (p.  365)   .         .  147 

xxi 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

PAGE 
(J) 

Dreams  and  Other  Poems.     By  Anne  Bronte. 

London  :  Printed  for  Thomas  J.  Wise,  Hamp- 

stead,  N.W.     1917. 
Edition  limited  to  Thirty  Copies. 

52  Call  Me  Away.     Call  me  away,  there's  nothing  here  (pp. 

9-12) 61 

53  The  Power  of  Love.     Love,  indeed  thy  strength  is  mighty, 

(pp.  13-15) 104 

54  The  Lover.     Gloomily  the  clouds  are  sailing  (pp.  16-18)      .   114 


XX11 


NOTE 

The  poems  in  this  volume  which  bear  fictitious  signa- 
tures or  initials  in  addition  to  the  signature  or  initials 
of  Anne  Bronte,  and  several  others  which  are  unsigned, 
belong  to  the  Gondal  cycle. 

For  several  years  Anne  and  Emily  Bronte  collaborated 
in  writing  about  the  Gondals,  who  appear  to  have  been 
a  princely  race  occupying  a  mountainous  northern 
country  : — 

1  Who  that  has  breathed  that  heavenly  air, 

To  Northern  climes  would  come, 
To  GondaPs  mists  and  moorlands  drear, 
And  sleet  and  frozen  gloom  ?  ' 

(Emily  Bronte) 

Of  their  writings,  The  Gondal  Plays  and  The  Gondal 
Chronicles,  only  the  poems  have  survived,  and  those  by 
Anne  Bronte  are  included  in  this  volume. 


xxm 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  DREAM 

Methought  I  saw  him,  but  I  knew  him  not, 
He  was  so  changed  from  what  he  used  to  be  ; 
There  was  no  redness  in  his  woe-worn  cheeks, 
No  sunny  smile  upon  his  ashy  lips  ; 
His  hollow,  wandering  eyes  looked  wild  and  fierce, 
And  grief  was  printed  on  his  marble  brow ; 
And,  oh,  I  thought  he  clasped  his  wasted  hands, 
And  raised   his   haggard   eyes   to   Heaven,   and 

prayed 
That  he  might  die.     I  had  no  power  to  speak  ; 
I  thought  I  was  allowed  to  see  him  thus, 
And  yet  I  might  not  speak  one  single  word  ; 
I  might  not  even  tell  him  that  I  lived, 
And  that  it  might  be  possible,   if  search  were 

made, 
To  find  out  where  I  was,  and  set  me  free. 
Oh  !   how  I  longed  to  clasp  him  to  my  heart, 
Or  but  to  hold  his  trembling  hand  in  mine, 
And  speak  one  word  of  comfort  to  his  mind. 
I  struggled  wildly,  but  it  was  in  vain  : 
I  could  not  rise  from  my  dark  dungeon  floor ; 
And  the  dear  name  I  vainly  strove  to  speak 
Died  in  a  voiceless  whisper  on  my  tongue. 

A  1 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

Then  I  awoke,  and,  lo  !   it  was  a  dream. 

A  dream  ?     Alas  !  it  was  reality  ; 

For  well  I  know,  wherever  he  may  be, 

He  mourns  me  thus.     Oh,  Heaven  !     I  could 

bear 
My  deadly  fate  with  calmness  if  there  were 
No  kindred  hearts  to  bleed  and  break  for  me. 

Alexandrina  Zenobia.     Anne  Bronte. 
Written  January  24,  1838. 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


THE  NORTH  WIND 

That  wind    is    from  the   North :     I   know   it 

well ; 
No  other  breeze  could  have  so  wild  a  swell. 
Now  deep  and  loud  it  thunders  round  my  cell, 

Then  faintly  dies,  and  softly  sighs, 
And  moans  and  murmurs  mournfully. 
I  know  its  language  :  thus  it  speaks  to  me  : 

4 1  have  passed  over  thy  own  mountains  dear, 
Thy   northern    mountains,    and   they   still 
are  free  ; 

Still  lonely,  wild,  majestic,  bleak,  and  drear, 
And  stern,  and  lovely,  as  they  used  to  be 

'  When  thou,  a  young  enthusiast, 

As  wild  and  free  as  they, 
O'er  rocks,  and  glens,  and  snowy  heights, 

Didst  often  love  to  stray. 

'  I  Ve  blown  the  pure,  untrodden  snows 
In  whirling  eddies  from  their  brows  ; 

3 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

And  I  have  howled  in  caverns  wild, 
Where  thou,  a  joyous  mountain-child, 

Didst  dearly  love  to  be. 
The  sweet  world  is  not  changed,  but  thou 
Art  pining  in  a  dungeon  now, 

Where  thou  must  ever  be. 

1  No  voice  but  mine  can  reach  thy  ear, 
And  Heaven  has  kindly  sent  me  here 

To  mourn  and  sigh  with  thee, 
And  tell  thee  of  the  cherished  land 

Of  thy  nativity.' 

Blow  on,  wild  wind  ;  thy  solemn  voice, 

However  sad  and  drear, 
Is  nothing  to  the  gloomy  silence 

I  have  had  to  bear. 

Hot  tears  are  streaming  from  my  eyes, 

But  these  are  better  far 
Than  that  dull,  gnawing,  tearless  time, 

The  stupor  of  despair. 

Confined  and  hopeless  as  I  am, 

Oh,  speak  of  liberty  ! 
Oh,  tell  me  of  my  mountain  home, 

And  I  will  welcome  thee  ! 

Alexandrina  Zenobia. 
Anne  Bronte,  January  26,  1838. 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


THE  PARTING 


The  chestnut  steed  stood  by  the  gate, 
His  noble  master's  will  to  wait ; 
The  wooded  park,  so  green  and  bright, 
Was  glowing  in  the  morning  light ; 
The  young  leaves  of  the  aspen  trees 
Were  dancing  in  the  morning  breeze. 
The  palace  door  was  open  wide, 

The  lord  was  standing  there, 
And  his  sweet  lady  by  his  side, 

With  soft,  dark  eyes,  and  raven  hair. 
He,  smiling,  took  her  ivory  hand, 
And  said,  '  No  longer  here  I  stand  ; 
My  charger  shakes  his  flowing  mane, 

And  calls  me  with  impatient  neigh. 
Adieu,  then,  till  we  meet  again  : 

Sweet  love,  I  must  no  longer  stay.' 

'  You  must  not  go  so  soon,'  she  said, 

*  I  will  not  say  "  farewell " ; 
The  sun  has  not  dispelled  the  shade 

In  yonder  dewy  dell. 

5 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

Dark  shadows  of  gigantic  length 

Are  sleeping  on  the  lawn, 
And  scarcely  have  the  birds  begun 

To  hail  the  summer  morn. 
Then  stay  with  me  a  little  while,' 
She  said,  with  soft  and  sunny  smile. 

He  smiled  again,  and  did  not  speak, 
But  lightly  kissed  her  rosy  cheek, 
And  fondly  clasped  her  in  his  arms ; 

Then  vaulted  on  his  steed, 
And   down   the    park's   smooth,    winding 
road, 

He  urged  its  flying  speed. 
Still  by  the  door  his  lady  stood 

And  watched  his  rapid  flight 
Until  he  reached  a  distant  wood 

That  hid  him  from  her  sight. 
But  ere  he  vanished  from  her  view 
He  waved  to  her  a  last  '  Adieu  !  ' 
Then  onward,  hastily,  he  steered, 
And  in  the  forest  disappeared. 

The  lady  smiled  a  pensive  smile, 

And  heaved  a  gentle  sigh  ; 
But   her   cheek    was   all   unbleached    the 
while, 

And  tearless  was  her  eye. 
6 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

'  A  thousand  lovely  flowers,'  she  said, 

*  Are  smiling  on  the  plain, 
And,  ere  one  half  of  them  are  dead, 

My  lord  will  come  again. 
The  leaves  are  waving  fresh  and  green 

On  every  stately  tree, 
And,  long  before  they  die  away, 

He  will  return  to  me  !  ' 
Alas  !  fair  lady,  say  not  so  : 
Thou  canst  not  tell  the  weight  of  woe 

That  lies  in  store  for  thee  ! 

Those  flowers  will  fade,  those  leaves  will  fall, 

Winter  will  darken  yonder  hall, 

Sweet  spring  will  smile  o'er  hill  and  plain, 

And  trees  and  flowers  will  bloom  again, 

And  years  will  still  keep  rolling  on  ; 

But  thy  beloved  lord  is  gone  ! 

His  absence  thou  shalt  deeply  mourn, 

And  never  smile  on  his  return. 

July  9,  1838. 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


THE  PARTING 


ii 


The  lady  of  Abyerno's  hall 

Is  waiting  for  her  lord  ; 
The  blackbird's  song,  the  cuckoo's  call, 

No  joy  to  her  afford. 
She  smiles  not  at  the  summer's  sun, 

Nor  at  the  winter's  blast ; 
She  mourns  that  she  is  still  alone 

Though  three  long  years  have  passed, 

I  knew  her  when  her  eye  was  bright, 
I  knew  her  when  her  step  was  light 
And  blithesome  as  a  mountain  doe's, 
And  when  her  cheek  was  like  the  rose, 
And  when  her  voice  was  full  and  free, 
And  when  her  smile  was  sweet  to  see. 

But  now  the  lustre  of  her  eye 
Is  dimmed  with  many  a  tear  ; 

Her  footstep's  elasticity 

Is  timed  with  grief  and  fear. 

The  rose  has  left  her  hollow  cheeks  ; 

In  low  and  mournful  tone  she  speaks, 

8 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

And  when  she  smiles,  'tis  but  a  gleam 

Of  sunshine  on  a  winter's  day 
That  faintly  beams  through  dreary  clouds, 

And  in  a  moment  dies  away. 
It  does  not  warm,  it  does  not  cheer, 

It  makes  us  sigh  for  summer  days 
When  fields  are  green  and  skies  are  clear, 

And  when  the  sun  has  kinder  rays. 

For  three  years  she  has  waited  there, 
Still  hoping  for  her  lord's  return  ; 

But  vainly  she  may  hope  and  fear, 

And  vainly  watch  and  weep  and  mourn. 

She  may  wait  him  till  her  hairs  are  grey, 

And  she  may  wear  her  life  away, 

But  to  his  lady  and  his  home 

Her  noble  lord  will  never  come. 


8 1  wish  I  knew  the  worst,'  she  said, 

'  I  wish  I  could  despair  : 
These  fruitless  hopes,  this  constant  dread, 

Are  more  than  I  can  bear.' 

6  Then  do  not  hope,  and  do  not  weep  : 

He  loved  thee  faithfully, 
And  nothing  short  of  death  could  keep 

So  true  a  heart  from  thee. 

B  9 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

Eliza,  he  would  never  go 

And  leave  thee  thus  to  mourn  ; 

He  must  be  dead,  for  death  alone 
Could  hinder  his  return.' 

'Twas  thus  I  spoke,  because  I  felt 

As  if  my  heart  would  break 
To  see  her  thus  so  slowly  pine 

For  Abyerno's  sake. 
But  more  than  that  I  would  not  tell, 
Though  all  the  while  I  knew  so  well 
The  time  and  nature  of  his  death  ; 
For  when  he  drew  his  parting  breath 
His  head  was  pillowed  on  my  knee, 
And  his  dark  eyes  were  turned  to  me 
With  an  agonised  heart-breaking  glance 

Until  they  saw  me  not. 
Oh  !  the  look  of  that  dying  man 

Can  never  be  forgot —  ! 

Alexandrina  Zenobia,  1837. 
Anne  Bronte,  July  10,  1838. 


10 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


VERSES  TO  A  CHILD 

Oh,  raise  those  eyes  to  me  again, 

And  smile  again  so  joyously ; 
And  fear  not,  love  ;   it  was  not  pain 

Nor  grief  that  drew  those  tears  from  me. 
Beloved  child  !  thou  canst  not  tell 
The  thoughts  that  in  my  bosom  swell 

Whene'er  I  look  on  thee  ! 

Thou  knowest  not  that  a  glance  of  thine 
Can  bring  back  long-departed  years, 

And  that  thy  blue  eyes'  magic  shine 
Can  overflow  my  own  with  tears, 

And  that  each  feature,  soft  and  fair, 

And  every  curl  of  thy  golden  hair, 
Some  sweet  remembrance  bears. 

Just  then  thou  didst  recall  to  me 
A  distant,  long-forgotten  scene  ; 

One  smile,  and  one  sweet  word  from  thee 
Dispelled  the  years  that  rolled  between  : 

I  was  a  little  child  again, 

And  every  after  joy  and  pain 
Seemed  never  to  have  been. 

11 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

Tall  forest  trees  waved  over  me 
To  hide  me  from  the  heat  of  day, 

And  by  my  side  a  child  like  thee 
Among  the  summer  flowerets  lay. 

He  was  thy  own,  thou  merry  child  : 

Like  thee  he  spoke,  like  thee  he  smiled, 
Like  thee  he  used  to  play. 

Oh  !  those  were  calm  and  happy  days  ; 

We  loved  each  other  fondly  then  ; 
But  human  love  too  soon  decays, 

And  ours  can  never  bloom  again. 
I  never  thought  to  see  the  day 
When  Florian's  friendship  would  decay 

Like  that  of  colder  men. 

Now,  Flora,  thou  hast  but  begun 
To  sail  on  life's  deceitful  sea  ; 

Oh  !  do  not  err  as  I  have  done, 
For  I  have  trusted  foolishly 

The  faith  of  every  friend  I  loved  : 

I  never  doubted  till  I  proved 
Their  heart's  inconstancy. 

'Tis  mournful  to  look  back  upon 
Those  long  departed  joys  and  cares, 

And  I  will  weep  since  thou  alone 
Art  witness  to  my  streaming  tears. 

12 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

This  lingering  love  will  not  depart : 
I  cannot  banish  from  my  heart 
The  friend  of  childhood's  years. 

But,  though  thy  father  loves  me  not, 
Yet  shall  I  still  be  loved  by  thee  ; 

And,  though  I  am  by  him  forgot, 
Say,  wilt  not  thou  remember  me  ? 

I  will  not  cause  thy  heart  to  ache  ; 

For  thy  regretted  father's  sake 
I  '11  love  and  cherish  thee. 

Alexandrina  Zenobia. 
Anne  Bronte,  August  21,  1838. 


13 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


SELF-CONGRATULATION 

*  Ellen,  you  were  thoughtless  once  1 

Of  beauty  or  of  grace, 
Simple  and  homely  in  attire, 

Careless  of  form  and  face. 
Then  whence  this  change  ?   and  wherefore 
now 

So  often  smooth  your  hair  ?  2 
And  wherefore  deck  your  youthful  form 

With  such  unwearied  care  ? 

'  Tell  us,  and  cease  to  tire  our  ears 

With  that  familiar  strain  ;  3 
Why  will  you  play  those  simple  tunes 

So  often  o'er  again  ?  ' 
'  Indeed,  dear  friends,  I  can  but  say 

That  childhood's  thoughts  are  gone  ; 
Each  year  its  own  new  feelings  brings, 

And  years  move  swiftly  on  : 

In  the  original  MS.  the  following  variations  occur  : — 

1  Line  1.     Maiden,  thou  wert  thoughtless  once 

2  Lines  5  and  6.     Then  whence  this  change  ?  and  why  so  oft 

Dost  smooth  thy  hazel  hair  ? 

3  Line  10.     With  yonder  hackneyed  strain  ; 

14 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

'  And  for  these  little  simple  airs— 

I  love  to  play  them  o'er 
So  much — I  dare  not  promise,  now, 

To  play  them  nevermore.' 
I  answered — and  it  was  enough  ; 

They  turned  them  to  depart ; 
They  could  not  read  my  secret  thoughts, 

Nor  see  my  throbbing  heart. 


I  've  noticed  many  a  youthful  form. 

Upon  whose  changeful  face 
The  inmost  workings  of  the  soul 

The  gazer  well  might  trace  ; 
The  speaking  eye,  the  changing  lip, 

The  ready  blushing  cheek, 
The  smiling,  or  beclouded  brow, 

Their  different  feelings  speak. 


But,  thank  God  !   you  might  gaze  on  mine 

For  hours,  and  never  know 
The  secret  changes  of  my  soul 

From  joy  to  keenest  woe. 
Last  night,  as  we  sat  round  the  fire, 

Conversing  merrily, 
We  heard,  without,  approaching  steps 

Of  one  well  known  to  me  ! 

15 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

There  was  no  trembling  in  my  voice, 

No  blush  upon  my  cheek, 
No  lustrous  sparkle  in  my  eyes, 

Of  hope,  or  joy,  to  speak  ; 
But,  oh  !   my  spirit  burned  within, 

My  heart  beat  full  and  fast ! 
He  came  not  nigh — he  went  away — 

And  then  my  joy  was  past. 

And  yet  my  comrades  marked  it  not : 

My  voice  was  still  the  same  ; 
They  saw  me  smile,  and  o'er  my  face 

No  signs  of  sadness  came. 
They  little  knew  my  hidden  thoughts  ; 

And  they  will  never  know 
The  aching  anguish  of  my  heart, 

The  bitter,  burning  woe  ! 

Olivia  Vernon. 

Written  January  1,  1840. 

Anne  Bronte. 


16 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


THE  BLUEBELL 

A  fine  and  subtle  spirit  dwells 

In  every  little  flower, 
Each  one  its  own  sweet  feeling  breathes 

With  more  or  less  of  power. 

There  is  a  silent  eloquence 

In  every  wild  bluebell, 
That  fills  my  softened  heart  with  bliss 

That  words  could  never  tell. 

Yet  I  recall,  not  long  ago,1 

A  bright  and  sunny  day  : 
'Twas  when  I  led  a  toilsome  life 

So  many  leagues  away. 

That  day  along  a  sunny  road 

All  carelessly  I  strayed 
Between  two  banks  where  smiling  flowers 

Their  varied  hues  displayed. 

1  Anne  Bronte  was  a  governess  at  Blake  Hall,  Mirfield,  Yorkshire, 
from  April  8,  1839,  until  January  1840. 

c  17 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

Before  me  rose  a  lofty  hill, 

Behind  me  lay  the  sea  ; 
My  heart  was  not  so  heavy  then 

As  it  was  wont  to  be. 


Less  harassed  than  at  other  times 

I  saw  the  scene  was  fair, 
And  spoke  and  laughed  to  those  around, 

As  if  I  knew  no  care. 


But  as  I  looked  upon  the  bank, 
My  wandering  glances  fell 

Upon  a  little  trembling  flower, 
A  single  sweet  bluebell. 


Whence  came  that  rising  in  my  throat, 

That  dimness  in  my  eyes  ? 
Why  did  those  burning  drops  distil, 

Those  bitter  feelings  rise  ? 


Oh,  that  lone  flower  recalled  to  me 
My  happy  childhood's  hours, 

When  bluebells  seemed  like  fairy  gifts, 
A  prize  among  the  flowers. 
18 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

Those  sunny  days  of  merriment 
When  heart  and  soul  were  free, 

And  when  I  dwelt  with  kindred  hearts 
That  loved  and  cared  for  me. 


I  had  not  then  mid  heartless  crowds 
To  spend  a  thankless  life, 

In  seeking  after  others'  weal 
With  anxious  toil  and  strife. 


1  Sad  wanderer,  weep  those  blissful  times 

That  never  may  return  !  ' 
The  lovely  floweret  seemed  to  say, 

And  thus  it  made  me  mourn. 

Anne  Bronte, 

August  22,  1840. 


19 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


AN  ORPHAN'S  LAMENT 

She  's  gone  ;   and  twice  the  summer's  sun 

Has  gilt  Regina's  towers, 
And  melted  wild  Angora's  snows, 

And  warmed  Epina's  bowers. 

The  flowerets  twice  on  hill  and  dale 
Have  bloomed  and  died  away ; 

And  twice  the  rustling  forest  leaves 
Have  fallen  to  decay. 

And  thrice  stern  winter's  icy  hand 

Has  checked  the  rivers'  flow, 
And  three  times  o'er  the  mountains  thrown 

His  spotless  robe  of  snow. 

Two  summers,  springs,  and  autumns  sad, 

Three  winters,  cold  and  grey  : 
And  is  it  then  so  long  ago 

That  wild  November  day  ? 
20 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

They  say  such  tears  as  children  weep 

Will  soon  be  dried  away  ; 
That  childhood's  grief,  however  strong, 

Is  only  for  a  day  ; 


And  parted  friends,  how  dear  soe'er, 

Will  soon  forgotten  be  : 
It  may  be  so  with  other  hearts  ; 

It  is  not  so  with  me. 


My  mother,  thou  wilt  weep  no  more, 
For  thou  art  gone  above  ; 

But,  can  I  ever  cease  to  mourn 
Thy  fond  and  fervent  love  ? 


While  that  was  mine  the  world  to  me 
Was  sunshine  bright  and  fair ; 

No  feeling  rose  within  my  heart 
But  thou  couldst  read  it  there. 


And  thou  couldst  feel  for  all  my  joys, 

And  all  my  childish  cares, 
And  never  weary  of  my  play 

Or  scorn  my  foolish  fears. 

21 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

Beneath  thy  sweet  maternal  smile 

All  pain  and  sorrow  fled  ; 
And  even  the  very  tears  were  sweet 

Upon  thy  bosom  shed. 

Thy  loss  can  never  be  repaired  : 

I  shall  not  know  again, 
While  life  remains,  the  peaceful  joy 

That  filled  my  spirit  then. 

Where  shall  I  find  a  heart  like  thine 

While  life  remains  to  me  ? 
And  where  shall  I  bestow  the  love 

I  ever  bore  for  thee  ? 

January  1,  1841,  A.  Z. 
Anne  Bronte. 


22 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


LINES  WRITTEN  AT  THORP  GREEN 1 

That  summer  sun,  whose  genial  glow- 
Now  cheers  my  drooping  spirit  so, 

Must  cold  and  silent  be, 
And  only  light  our  northern  clime 
With  feeble  ray,  before  the  time 

I  long  so  much  to  see. 

And  this  soft,  whispering  breeze,  that  now 
So  gently  cools  my  fevered  brow, 

This  too,  alas  !   must  turn 
To  a  wild  blast,  whose  icy  dart 
Pierces  and  chills  me  to  the  heart, 

Before  I  cease  to  mourn. 

And  these  bright  flowers  I  love  so  well, 
Verbena,  rose,  and  sweet  bluebell, 

Must  droop  and  die  away ; 
Those  thick,  green  leaves,  with  all  their  shade 
And  rustling  music,  they  must  fade, 

And  every  one  decay. 

1  Anne  Bronte  was  governess  to  the  two  daughters  of  the  Rev. 
Edmund  Robinson  of  Thorp  Green,  in  the  parish  of  Little  Ouseburn, 
Yorkshire,  from  early  in  the  year  1841  until  June  1845. 

23 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

But  if  the  sunny,  summer  time, 

And  woods  and  meadows  in  their  prime, 

Are  sweet  to  them  that  roam  ; 
Far  sweeter  is  the  winter  bare, 
With  long,  dark  nights,  and  landscape  drear, 

To  them  that  are  at  Home  ! 

A.  B.,  August  19,  1841. 


24 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


APPEAL1 

Oh,  I  am  very  weary, 

Though  tears  no  longer  flow  ; 

My  eyes  are  tired  of  weeping, 
My  heart  is  sick  of  woe  ; 

My  life  is  very  lonely, 

My  days  pass  heavily, 
I  'm  weary  of  repining  ; 

Wilt  thou  not  come  to  me  ? 

Oh,  didst  thou  know  my  longings 
For  thee,  from  day  to  day, 

My  hopes,  so  often  blighted, 
Thou  wouldst  not  thus  delay  ! 

Anne  Bronte, 
August  28,  1841. 

1   In  the  original  MS.  the  title  is,  '  Lines  written  at  Thorp  Green.' 


25 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


DESPONDENCY 

I  have  gone  backward  in  the  work, 
The  labour  has  not  sped  ; 

Drowsy  and  dark  my  spirit  lies, 
Heavy  and  dull  as  lead. 


How  can  I  rouse  my  sinking  soul 

From  such  a  lethargy  ? 
How  can  I  break  these  iron  chains 

And  set  my  spirit  free  ? 

There  have  been  times  when  I  have  mourned 

In  anguish  o'er  the  past, 
And  raised  my  suppliant  hands  on  high, 

While  tears  fell  thick  and  fast ; 

And  prayed  to  have  my  sins  forgiven, 

With  such  a  fervent  zeal, 
An  earnest  grief,  a  strong  desire, 

As  now  I  cannot  feel. 

26 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

And  vowed  to  trample  on  my  sins, 
And  called  on  Heaven  to  aid 

My  spirit  in  her  firm  resolves 
And  hear  the  vows  I  made. 

And  I  have  felt  so  full  of  love, 

So  strong  in  spirit  then, 
As  if  my  heart  would  never  cool, 

Or  wander  back  again. 

And  yet,  alas  !  how  many  times 
My  feet  have  gone  astray  ! 

How  oft  have  I  forgot  my  God  ! 
How  greatly  fallen  away  ! 

My  sins  increase,  my  love  grows  cold, 
And  Hope  within  me  dies  : 

Even  Faith  itself  is  wavering  now  ; 
Oh,  how  shall  I  arise  ? 

I  cannot  weep,  but  I  can  pray, 

Then  let  me  not  despair  ; 
Lord  Jesus,  save  me,  lest  I  die  ; 

Christ,  hear  my  humble  prayer  !  * 

December  20,  1841, 

1  Variation  in  the  original  MS.  : — 

And  hear  a  wretch's  prayer. 

27 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


TO  COWPER 

Sweet  are  thy  strains,  Celestial  Bard  ; 

And  oft,  in  childhood's  years, 
I  've  read  them  o'er  and  o'er  again, 

With  floods  of  silent  tears. 


The  language  of  my  inmost  heart 

I  traced  in  every  line  ; 
My  sins,  my  sorrows,  hopes,  and  fears, 

Were  there — and  only  mine. 

All  for  myself  the  sigh  would  swell, 
The  tear  of  anguish  start ; 

I  little  knew  what  wilder  woe 
Had  filled  the  Poet's  heart. 

I  did  not  know  the  nights  of  gloom, 

The  days  of  misery  : 
The  long,  long  years  of  dark  despair, 
That  crushed  and  tortured  thee. 
28 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

But  they  are  gone  ;   from  earth  at  length 

Thy  gentle  soul  is  passed, 
And  in  the  bosom  of  its  God 

Has  found  its  home  at  last. 


It  must  be  so,  if  God  is  love, 
And  answers  fervent  prayer ; 

Then  surely  thou  shalt  dwell  on  high, 
And  I  may  meet  thee  there. 


Is  He  the  source  of  every  good, 

The  spring  of  purity  ? 
Then  in  thine  hours  of  deepest  woe, 

Thy  God  was  still  with  thee. 


How  else,  when  every  hope  was  fled, 
Couldst  thou  so  fondly  cling 

To  holy  things  and  holy  men  ? 
And  how  so  sweetly  sing 


Of  things  that  God  alone  could  teach  ? 

And  whence  that  purity, 
That  hatred  of  all  sinful  ways — 

That  gentle  charity  ? 

29 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

Are  these  the  symptoms  of  a  heart 

Of  heavenly  grace  bereft — 
For  ever  banished  from  its  God, 

To  Satan's  fury  left  ? 

Yet,  should  thy  darkest  fears  be  true, 

If  Heaven  be  so  severe, 
That  such  a  soul  as  thine  is  lost,— 

Oh  !  how  shall  /  appear  ? 

Anne  Bronte, 
November  10,  1842. 


30 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


IN  MEMORY  OF  A  HAPPY  DAY  IN 
FEBRUARY 

Blessed  be  Thou  for  all  the  joy 

My  soul  has  felt  to-day  ! 
Oh,  let  its  memory  stay  with  me 

And  never  pass  away  ! 

I  was  alone,  for  those  I  loved 

Were  far  away  from  me  ; 
The  sun  shone  on  the  withered  grass, 

The  wind  blew  fresh  and  free. 

Was  it  the  smile  of  early  spring 
That  made  my  bosom  glow  ? 

'Twas  sweet,  but  neither  sun  nor  wind 
Could  raise  my  spirit  so. 

Was  it  some  feeling  of  delight, 

All  vague  and  undefined  ? 
No,  'twas  a  rapture  deep  and  strong, 

Expanding  in  my  mind  ! 

31 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

Was  it  a  sanguine  view  of  life 
And  all  its  transient  bliss — 

A  hope  of  bright  prosperity  ? 
Oh,  no  !  it  was  not  this. 


It  was  a  glimpse  of  truth  divine 

Unto  my  spirit  given, 
Illumined  by  a  ray  of  light 

That  shone  direct  from  Heaven  ! 

I  felt  there  was  a  God  on  high 
By  whom  all  things  were  made  ; 

I  saw  His  wisdom  and  His  power 
In  all  His  works  displayed. 

But  most  throughout  the  moral  world 

I  saw  His  glory  shine  ; 
I  saw  His  wisdom  infinite, 

His  mercy  all  divine. 

Deep  secrets  of  His  providence 
In  darkness  long  concealed, 

Unto  the  vision  of  my  soul 
Were  graciously  revealed.1 

Variation  in  the  original  MS.  : — 

Were  brought  to  my  delighted  eye6 
And  graciously  revealed. 

32 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

But  while  I  wondered  and  adored 

His  Majesty  divine, 
I  did  not  tremble  at  His  power  : 

I  felt  that  God  was  mine. 


I  knew  that  my  Redeemer  lived ; 

I  did  not  fear  to  die  ; 
I  felt  that  I  should  rise  again 

To  immortality. 

I  longed  to  view  that  bliss  divine 
Which  eye  hath  never  seen ; 

Like  Moses,  I  would  see  His  face  1 
Without  the  veil  between. 

Begun  in  February — finished 
November  10,  1842. 

1  Variation  in  the  original  MS.  : — 

To  see  the  glories  of  His  face 


33 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


LINES  COMPOSED  IN  A  WOOD  ON 
A  WINDY  DAY1 

My  soul  is  awakened,  my  spirit  is  soaring 
And  carried  aloft  on  the  wings  of  the  breeze  ; 

For   above   and   around   me   the   wild   wind   is 
roaring, 
Arousing  to  rapture  the  earth  and  the  seas. 

The    long    withered    grass    in    the    sunshine    is 
glancing, 
The  bare  trees  are  tossing  their  branches  on  high ; 
The    dead    leaves    beneath    them    are    merrily 
dancing, 
The  white  clouds  are  scudding  across  the  blue 
sky. 

I  wish  I  could  see  how  the  ocean  is  lashing 

The  foam  of  its  billows  to  whirlwinds  of  spray  ; 

I  wish  I  could  see  how  its  proud  waves  are 
dashing, 
And  hear  the  wild  roar  of  their  thunder  to-day  ! 

A.  Bronte, 
December  30,  1842. 

1  'Composed  in  the  Long  Plantation  on  a  wild,  bright,  windy  day.' 

{Note  by  the  author  in  one  MS.) 

34 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


A  WORD  TO  THE  '  ELECT  ' 1 

You  may  rejoice  to  think  yourselves  secure  ; 
You  may  be  grateful  for  the  gift  divine — 
That  grace  unsought,   which  made  your  black 
hearts  pure, 
And  fits  your  earth-born  souls  in  Heaven  to 
shine. 


But  is  it  sweet  to  look  around,  and  view 
Thousands  excluded  from  that  happiness 

Which  they  deserve  at  least  as  much  as  you— 
Their  faults  not  greater,  nor  their  virtues  less  ? 


And  wherefore  should  you  love  your  God  the 
more, 

Because  to  you  alone  His  smiles  are  given  ; 
Because  He  chose  to  pass  the  many  o'er, 

And  only  bring  the  favoured  few  to  Heaven  ? 

1  The  title  in  the  original  MS.  is  'A  Word  to  the  Calvinists.' 

35 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

And  wherefore  should  your  hearts  more  grateful 
prove, 

Because  for  all  the  Saviour  did  not  die  ? 
Is  yours  the  God  of  justice  and  of  love  ? 

And  are  your  bosoms  warm  with  charity  ? 

Say,  does  your  heart  expand  to  all  mankind  ? 
And,  would  you  ever  to  your  neighbour  do — 

The  weak,  the  strong,  the  enlightened,  and  the 
blind- 
As  you  would  have  your  neighbour  do  to  you  ? 

And  when  you,  looking  on  your  fellow-men, 
Behold  them  doomed  to  endless  misery, 

How  can  you  talk  of  joy  and  rapture  then  ?— 
May  God  withhold  such  cruel  joy  from  me  ! 

That  none  deserve  eternal  bliss  I  know  ; 

Unmerited  the  grace  in  mercy  given  : 
But  none  shall  sink  to  everlasting  woe, 

That   have   not   well   deserved   the   wrath   of 
Heaven. 

And,  oh  !  there  lives  within  my  heart 

A  hope,  long  nursed  by  me  ; 
(And  should  its  cheering  ray  depart, 

How  dark  my  soul  would  be  !) 
36 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

That  '  as  in  Adam  all  have  died, 

In  Christ  shall  all  men  live  ' ; 
And  ever  round  His  throne  abide, 

Eternal  praise  to  give. 

That  even  the  wicked  shall  at  last 

Be  fitted  for  the  skies  ; 
And  when  their  dreadful  doom  is  past, 

To  life  and  light  arise. 

I  ask  not  how  remote  the  day, 

Nor  what  the  sinners'  woe, 
Before  their  dross  is  purged  away  ; 

Enough  for  me  to  know — 

That  when  the  cup  of  wrath  is  drained, 

The  metal  purified, 
They  '11  cling  to  what  they  once  disdained, 

And  live  by  Him  that  died. 

Anne  Bronte, 
May  28,  1843. 


37 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


THE  DOUBTER'S  PRAYER 

Eternal  Power,  of  earth  and  air  ! 

Unseen,  yet  seen  in  all  around  ; 
Remote,  but  dwelling  everywhere  ; 

Though  silent,  heard  in  every  sound  ; 

If  e'er  Thine  ear  in  mercy  bent, 

When  wretched  mortals  cried  to  Thee, 

And  if,  indeed,  Thy  Son  was  sent, 
To  save  lost  sinners  such  as  me  : 


Then  hear  me  now,  while  kneeling  here, 
I  lift  to  Thee  my  heart  and  eye, 

And  all  my  soul  ascends  in  prayer, 
Oh,  give  me— give  me  Faith  !  I  cry. 

Without  some  glimmering  in  my  heart, 
I  could  not  raise  this  fervent  prayer ; 

But,  oh  !   a  stronger  light  impart, 
And  in  Thy  mercy  fix  it  there. 
38 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

While  Faith  is  with  me,  I  am  blest ; 

It  turns  my  darkest  night  to  day  ; 
But  while  I  clasp  it  to  my  breast, 

I  often  feel  it  slide  away. 


Then,  cold  and  dark,  my  spirit  sinks, 
To  see  my  light  of  life  depart ; 

And  every  fiend  of  Hell,  methinks, 
Enjoys  the  anguish  of  my  heart. 


What  shall  I  do,  if  all  my  love, 
My  hopes,  my  toil,  are  cast  away, 

And  if  there  be  no  God  above, 

To  hear  and  bless  me  when  I  pray  ? 


If  this  be  vain  delusion  all, 
If  death  be  an  eternal  sleep, 

And  none  can  hear  my  secret  call, 
Or  see  the  silent  tears  I  weep  ! 


Oh,  help  me,  God  !     For  Thou  alone 
Canst  my  distracted  soul  relieve  ; 

Forsake  it  not,  it  is  Thine  own, 

Though  weak,  yet  longing  to  believe. 

39 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

Oh,  drive  these  cruel  doubts  away  ; 

And  make  me  know  that  Thou  art  God  ! 
A  faith,  that  shines  by  night  and  day, 

Will  lighten  every  earthly  load. 

If  I  believe  that  Jesus  died, 

And  waking,  rose  to  reign  above  ; 

Then  surely  Sorrow,  Sin,  and  Pride 

Must  yield  to  Peace,  and  Hope,  and  Love ; 

And  all  the  blessed  words  He  said 
Will  strength  and  holy  joy  impart : 

A  shield  of  safety  o'er  my  head, 
A  spring  of  comfort  in  my  heart. 

A.  Bronte, 
September  10,  1843. 


40 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


THE  CAPTIVE  DOVE  1 

Poor  restless  dove,  I  pity  thee  ; 

And  when  I  hear  thy  plaintive  moan, 
I  mourn  for  thy  captivity, 

And  in  thy  woes  forget  mine  own. 

To  see  thee  stand  prepared  to  fly, 
And  flap  those  useless  wings  of  thine, 

And  gaze  into  the  distant  sky, 

Would  melt  a  harder  heart  than  mine. 

In  vain—in  vain  !     Thou  canst  not  rise  ; 

Thy  prison  roof  confines  thee  there  ; 
Its  slender  wires  delude  thine  eyes, 

And  quench  thy  longings  with  despair, 

Oh,  thou  wert  made  to  wander  free 
In  sunny  mead  and  shady  grove, 

And  far  beyond  the  rolling  sea, 
In  distant  climes,  at  will  to  rove  ! 

1  Note  by  the  author. — Mostly  written  in  the  spring  of  1842. 

F  41 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

Yet,  hadst  thou  but  one  gentle  mate 
Thy  little  drooping  heart  to  cheer, 

And  share  with  thee  thy  captive  state, 
Thou  couldst  be  happy  even  there. 


Yes,  even  there,  if,  listening  by, 

One  faithful  dear  companion  stood ; 

While  gazing  on  her  full  bright  eye, 
Thou  mightst  forget  thy  native  wood. 

But  thou,  poor  solitary  dove, 

Must  make,  unheard,  thy  joyless  moan  ; 
The  heart  that  Nature  formed  to  love 

Must  pine,  neglected,  and  alone. 

A.  Bronte, 
October  31,  1843. 


42 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


THE  CONSOLATION 

This  poem  was  first  printed  in  the  1846  volume  of 
Poems.  In  1850  it  was  included  by  Charlotte  Bronte 
in  her  Selection  from  the  Poems  of  Acton  Bell,  under 
the  title  of '  Lines  Written  from  Home/  with  the  follow- 
ing note  : — '  My  sister  Anne  had  to  taste  the  cup  of 
life  as  it  is  mixed  for  the  class  termed  "  Governesses/' 
The  following  are  some  of  the  thoughts  that  now  and 
then  solace  a  governess ' : — 

Though  bleak  these  woods,  and  damp  the  ground 
With  fallen  leaves  so  thickly  strown, 

And  cold  the  wind  that  wanders  round 
With  wild  and  melancholy  moan  ; 

There  is  a  friendly  roof  I  know, 

Might  shield  me  from  the  wintry  blast ; 

There  is  a  fire,  whose  ruddy  glow 

Will  cheer  me  for  my  wanderings  past. 

And  so,  though  still,  where'er  I  go, 
Cold  stranger-glances  meet  my  eye  ; 

Though,  when  my  spirit  sinks  in  woe, 
Unheeded  swells  the  unbidden  sigh  ; 

43 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

Though  solitude,  endured  too  long, 
Bids  youthful  joys  too  soon  decay, 

Makes  mirth  a  stranger  to  my  tongue, 
And  overclouds  my  noon  of  day  ; 


When  kindly  thoughts  that  would  have  way, 
Flow  back  discouraged  to  my  breast ; 

I  know  there  is,  though  far  away, 

A  home  where  heart  and  soul  may  rest. 

Warm  hands  are  there,  that,  clasped  in  mine, 
The  warmer  heart  will  not  belie  ; 

While  mirth,  and  truth,  and  friendship  shine 
In  smiling  lip  and  earnest  eye. 

The  ice  that  gathers  round  my  heart 

May  there  be  thawed  ;   and  sweetly,  then, 

The  joys  of  youth,  that  now  depart, 
Will  come  to  cheer  my  soul  again. 

Though  far  I  roam,  that  thought  shall  be 
My  hope,  my  comfort,  everywhere  ; 

While  such  a  home  remains  to  me, 
My  heart  shall  never  know  despair  ! 


Anne  Bronte, 

November  7,  1843. 


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POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


PAST  DAYS 

'Tis  strange  to  think  there  was  a  time 
When  mirth  was  not  an  empty  name, 

When  laughter  really  cheered  the  heart, 
And  frequent  smiles  unbidden  came, 

And  tears  of  grief  would  only  flow 

In  sympathy  for  others'  woe  ; 

When  speech  expressed  the  inward  thought, 
And  heart  to  kindred  heart  was  bare, 

And  summer  days  were  far  too  short 
For  all  the  pleasures  crowded  there  ; 

And  silence,  solitude,  and  rest, — 

Now  welcome  to  the  weary  breast — 

Were  all  unprized,  uncourted  then ; 

And  all  the  joy  one  spirit  showed, 
The  other  deeply  felt  again  ; 

And  friendship  like  a  river  flowed, 
Constant  and  strong  its  silent  course, 
For  nought  withstood  its  gentle  force  : 

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POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

When  night,  the  holy  time  of  peace, 
Was  dreaded  as  the  parting  hour  ; 

When  speech  and  mirth  at  once  must  cease,1 
And  silence  must  resume  her  power  ; 

Though  ever  free  from  pains  and  woes, 

She  only  brought  us  calm  repose. 

And  when  the  blessed  dawn  again 

Brought  daylight  to  the  blushing  skies, 

We  woke,  and  not  reluctant  then, 
To  joyless  labour  did  we  rise  ; 

But  full  of  hope,  and  glad  and  gay, 

We  welcomed  the  returning  day. 

Anne  Bronte, 
November  21,  1843. 

1  '  When  friendly  intercourse  must  cease/  is  a  variation  in  one  MS. 


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POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


THE  STUDENT'S  SERENADE 

I  have  slept  upon  my  couch, 
But  my  spirit  did  not  rest, 

For  the  labours  of  the  day 
Yet  my  weary  soul  opprest ; 

And  before  my  dreaming  eyes 
Still  the  learned  volumes  lay, 

And  I  could  not  close  their  leaves, 
And  I  could  not  turn  away. 

While  the  grim  preceptors  laughed, 

And  exulted  in  my  woe, 
Till  I  felt  my  tingling  frame 

With  the  fire  of  anger  glow.1 

But  I  oped  my  eyes  at  last, 
And  I  heard  a  muffled  sound  ; 

'Twas  the  night-breeze  come  to  say 
That  the  snow  was  on  the  ground. 

1  The  third  verse  has  not  been  previously  published. 

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POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

Then  I  knew  that  there  was  rest 
On  the  mountain's  bosom  free  ; 

So  I  left  my  fevered  couch, 
And  I  flew  to  waken  thee  ! 


I  have  flown  to  waken  thee — 
For,  if  thou  wilt  not  arise, 

Then  my  soul  can  drink  no  peace 
From  these  holy  moonlight  skies. 


And  this  waste  of  virgin  snow 
To  my  sight  will  not  be  fair, 

Unless  thou  wilt  smiling  come, 
Love,  to  wander  with  me  there. 


Then,  awake  !  Maria,  wake  ! 

For,  if  thou  couldst  only  know 
How  the  quiet  moonlight  sleeps 

On  this  wilderness  of  snow, 


And  the  groves  of  ancient  trees, 
In  their  snowy  garb  arrayed, 

Till  they  stretch  into  the  gloom 
Of  the  distant  valley's  shade  ; 
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POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

Oh,  I  know  thou  wouldst  rejoice 
To  inhale  this  bracing  air ; 

Thou  wouldst  break  thy  sweetest  sleep 
To  behold  a  scene  so  fair. 


O'er  these  wintry  wilds,  alone, 

Thou  wouldst  joy  to  wander  free  ; 

And  it  will  not  please  thee  less, 

Though  that  bliss  be  shared  with  me. 

Anne  Bronte, 
February  1844. 

This  poem  is  signed  '  Alexander  Hybernia '  in  the  original  MS. 


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POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


A  REMINISCENCE 

Yes,  thou  art  gone  !   and  never  more 
Thy  sunny  smile  shall  gladden  me  ; 

But  I  may  pass  the  old  church  door, 
And  pace  the  floor  that  covers  thee. 

May  stand  upon  the  cold,  damp  stone, 
And  think  that,  frozen,  lies  below 

The  lightest  heart  that  I  have  known, 
The  kindest  I  shall  ever  know. 

Yet,  though  I  cannot  see  thee  more, 
'Tis  still  a  comfort  to  have  seen  ; 

And  though  thy  transient  life  is  o'er, 

'Tis  sweet  to  think  that  thou  hast  been  ; 

To  think  a  soul  so  near  divine, 

Within  a  form  so  angel  fair, 
United  to  a  heart  like  thine, 

Has  gladdened  once  our  humble  sphere. 

April  1844. 
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POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


MEMORY 

Brightly  the  sun  of  summer  shone 
Green  fields  and  waving  woods  upon, 

And  soft  winds  wandered  by ; 
Above,  a  sky  of  purest  blue, 
Around,  bright  flowers  of  loveliest  hue, 

Allured  the  gazer's  eye. 

But  what  were  all  these  charms  to  me, 
When  one  sweet  breath  of  memory 

Came  gently  wafting  by  ? 
I  closed  my  eyes  against  the  day, 
And  called  my  willing  soul  away, 

From  earth,  and  air,  and  sky ; 

That  I  might  simply  fancy  there 
One  little  flower— a  primrose  fair, 

Just  opening  into  sight ; 
As  in  the  days  of  infancy, 
An  opening  primrose  seemed  to  me 

A  source  of  strange  delight. 

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POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

Sweet  Memory  !  ever  smile  on  me  ; 
Nature's  chief  beauties  spring  from  thee  ; 

Oh,  still  thy  tribute  bring  ! 
Still  make  the  golden  crocus  shine 
Among  the  flowers  the  most  divine, 

The  glory  of  the  spring. 

Still  in  the  wallflower's  fragrance  dwell ; 
And  hover  round  the  slight  bluebell, 

My  childhood's  darling  flower. 
Smile  on  the  little  daisy  still, 
The  buttercup's  bright  goblet  fill 

With  all  thy  former  power. 

For  ever  hang  thy  dreamy  spell 
Round  mountain-star  and  heather-bell, 

And  do  not  pass  away 
From  sparkling  frost,  or  wreathed  snow, 
And  whisper  when  the  wild  winds  blow, 

Or  rippling  waters  play. 

Is  childhood,  then,  so  all  divine  ? 
Or,  Memory,  is  the  glory  thine, 

That  haloes  thus  the  past  ? 
Not  all  divine  ;   its  pangs  of  grief 
(Although,  perchance,  their  stay  be  brief) 

Are  bitter  while  they  last. 
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POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

Nor  is  the  glory  all  thine  own, 
For  on  our  earliest  joys  alone 

That  holy  light  is  cast. 
With  such  a  ray,  no  spell  of  thine 
Can  make  our  later  pleasures  shine, 

Though  long  ago  they  passed. 

Anne  Bronte, 
May  19,  1844. 
48  lines. 


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POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


FLUCTUATIONS 

What  though  the  Sun  had  left  my  sky ; 

To  save  me  from  despair 
The  blessed  Moon  arose  on  high, 

And  shone  serenely  there. 


I  watched  her,  with  a  tearful  gaze, 

Rise  slowly  o'er  the  hill, 
While  through  the  dim  horizon's  haze 

Her  light  gleamed  faint  and  chill. 


I  thought  such  wan  and  lifeless  beams 

Could  ne'er  my  heart  repay 
For  the  bright  Sun's  most  transient  gleams 

That  cheered  me  through  the  day. 


But,  as  above  that  mist's  control 
She  rose,  and  brighter  shone, 

I  felt  her  light  upon  my  soul ; 
But  now— that  light  is  gone  ! 
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POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

Thick  vapours  snatched  her  from  my  sight, 

And  I  was  darkling  left, 
All  in  the  cold  and  gloomy  night, 

Of  light  and  hope  bereft : 

Until,  methought,  a  little  star 
Shone  forth  with  trembling  ray, 

To  cheer  me  with  its  light  afar — 
But  that,  too,  passed  away. 

Anon,  an  earthly  meteor  blazed 

The  gloomy  darkness  through  ; 
I  smiled,  yet  trembled  while  I  gazed — 

But  that  soon  vanished  too  ! 

And  darker,  drearier  fell  the  night 

Upon  my  spirit  then  ; — 
But  what  is  that  faint  struggling  light  ? 

Is  it  the  Moon  again  ? 

Kind  Heaven  !   increase  that  silvery  gleam, 

And  bid  these  clouds  depart, 
And  let  her  soft  celestial  beam 

Restore  my  fainting  heart ! 

Anne  Bronte, 
August  2,  1844. 
36  lines. 

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POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


A  PRAYER 

My  God  (oh,  let  me  call  Thee  mine, 
Weak,  wretched  sinner  though  I  be), 

My  trembling  soul  would  fain  be  Thine  ; 
My  feeble  faith  still  clings  to  Thee. 

Not  only  for  the  past  I  grieve, 
The  future  fills  me  with  dismay ; 

Unless  Thou  hasten  to  relieve, 
Thy  suppliant  is  a  castaway.1 

I  cannot  say  my  faith  is  strong,. 

I  dare  not  hope  my  love  is  great ; 
But  strength  and  love  to  Thee  belong  : 

Oh,  do  not  leave  me  desolate  ! 

I  know  I  owe  my  all  to  Thee  ; 

Oh,  take  the  heart  I  cannot  give  ; 
Do  Thou  my  Strength,  my  Saviour  be, 

And  make  me  to  Thy  glory  live  ! 

October  13,  1844. 

1  '  I  know  my  heart  will  fall  away.'  in  original  MS. 
This  poem  is  included  in  the  Baptist  'Hymnal.' 

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POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


THE  DUNGEON 

Though  not  a  breath  can  enter  here, 
I  know  the  wind  blows  fresh  and  free  ; 

I  know  the  sun  is  shining  clear 
Though  not  a  gleam  can  visit  me. 

They  thought  while  I  in  darkness  lay 
'Twere  pity  that  I  should  not  know 

How  all  the  earth  is  smiling  gay, 
How  fresh  the  vernal  breezes  blow. 

They  knew  such  tidings  to  impart 

Would  pierce  my  weary  spirit  through  ; 

And  could  they  better  read  my  heart, 
They  5d  tell  me  she  was  smiling  too. 

They  need  not,  for  I  know  it  well, 

Methinks  I  see  her  even  now, 
No  sigh  disturbs  her  bosom's  swell, 

No  shade  o'ercasts  her  angel  brow. 

Unmarred  by  grief  her  matchless  voice, 
Whence  sparkling  wit,  and  wisdom  flow 

And  others  in  its  sound  rejoice, 

And  taste  the  joys  I  must  not  know ; 

h  57 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

Drink  rapture  from  her  soft  dark  eye, 
And  sunshine  from  her  heavenly  smile  ; 

On  wings  of  bliss  their  moments  fly 
And  I  am  pining  here  the  while  ! 

Oh  !  tell  me,  does  she  never  give 
To  my  distress  a  single  sigh  ? 

She  smiles  on  them,  but  does  she  grieve 
One  moment,  when  they  are  not  by  ? 

When  she  beholds  the  sunny  skies, 
And  feels  the  wind  of  heaven  blow  ; 

Has  she  no  tear  for  him  that  lies 
In  dungeon-gloom  so  far  below  ? 

While  others  gladly  round  her  press, 
And  at  her  side  their  hours  beguile, 

Has  she  no  sigh  for  his  distress, 
Who  cannot  see  a  single  smile, 

Nor  hear  one  word,  nor  read  a  line 
That  her  beloved  hand  might  write  ; 

Who  banished  from  her  face  must  pine, 
Each  day  a  long,  a  lonely  night  ? 

December  16,  1844. 


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POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


HOME 

How  brightly  glistening  in  the  sun 

The  woodland  ivy  plays  ! 
While  yonder  beeches  from  their  barks 

Reflect  his  silver  rays. 


That  sun  surveys  a  lovely  scene 

From  softly  smiling  skies  ; 
And  wildly  through  unnumbered  trees 

The  wind  of  winter  sighs  : 


Now  loud,  it  thunders  o'er  my  head, 
And  now  in  distance  dies. 

But  give  me  back  my  barren  hills, 
Where  colder  breezes  rise  ; 


Where  scarce  the  scattered,  stunted  trees 
Can  yield  an  answering  swell, 

But  where  a  wilderness  of  heath 
Returns  the  sound  as  well. 

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POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

For  yonder  garden,  fair  and  wide, 

With  groves  of  evergreen, 
Long  winding  walks,  and  borders  trim, 

And  velvet  lawns  between — 


Restore  to  me  that  little  spot, 

With  grey  walls  compassed  round, 

Where  knotted  grass  neglected  lies, 
And  weeds  usurp  the  ground. 

Though  all  around  this  mansion  high 

Invites  the  foot  to  roam, 
And  though  its  halls  are  fair  within — 

Oh,  give  me  back  my  Home  ! 

Undated,  c.  1844. 
Published  in  1846. 


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POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


CALL  ME  AWAY 

Call  me  away,  there  's  nothing  here 

That  wins  my  soul  to  stay  ; 
Then  let  me  leave  this  prospect  drear 

And  hasten  far  away. 

To  our  beloved  land  I  '11  flee, 
Our  land  of  thought  and  soul, 

Where  I  have  roved  so  oft  with  thee 
Beyond  the  world's  control. 

I  '11  sit  and  watch  those  ancient  trees, 
Those  Scotch  firs  dark  and  high, 

I  '11  listen  as  the  eerie  breeze 
Tempts  leaf  and  branch  to  sigh. 

The  glorious  moon  shines  far  above, 

How  soft  her  radiance  falls 
On  snowy  heights,  on  rock,  and  grove, 

And  yonder  palace  walls. 

Who  stands  beneath  yon  fir-trees  high  ? 

A  youth  so  slight  and  fair, 
But  whose  keen  and  restless  azure  eye 

Proclaims  him  known  to  care. 

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POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

Though  white  that  brow  it  is  not  smooth 
Dark  lines  spread  'neath  the  hair  ; 

Though  soft  those  features,  yet  in  sooth 
Stern  sorrow  has  been  there. 


Now  on  the  peaceful  moon  are  fixed 
Those  eyes  so  clear  and  bright, 

But  trembling  tear-drops  hang  betwixt, 
And  dim  the  blessM  sight. 

Though  late  the  hour  and  keen  the  blast 

That  whistles  round  him  now, 
Those  raven  locks  are  backward  cast 

To  cool  his  burning  brow. 

*His  hands  above  his  heaving  breast 
Are  clasped  in  agony  ; 
'  O  Father,  Father,  let  me  rest, 
And  call  my  soul  to  Thee  ! 

*'  I  know  'tis  weakness  thus  to  pray, 
But  all  this  cankering  care, 
This  doubt,  tormenting  night  and  day, 
Is  more  than  I  can  bear. 

*  The  verses  and  lines  marked  with  an  asterisk  (*)  are  now  printed 
for  the  first  time. 

62 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

1  With  none  to  comfort,  none  to  guide, 

And  none  to  strengthen  me, 
Since  thou,  my  only  friend,  hast  died, 
I  've  pined  to  follow  thee. 
*  Since  thou  hast  died  !     And  did  he  live 
*What  comfort  would  his  counsel  give 
*To  one  forlorn  like  me  ? 


c  Would  he  my  idol's  form  adore  : 
Her  soul,  her  glance,  her  tone, 
And  say,  "  Forget  for  evermore 
Her  kindred,  and  thine  own. 
*I*et  dreams  of  her  thy  peace  destroy, 
*Leave  every  other  hope  of  joy, 
*And  live  for  her  alone  "  ?  ' 


He  starts,  he  smiles,  and  dries  the  tears 
Still  glistening  on  his  cheek  : 

The  lady  of  his  soul  appears, 
And,  hark  !   I  hear  her  speak. 


4  Aye,  dry  thy  tears  !  thou  wilt  not  weep 

While  I  am  by  thy  side  ; 
Our  foes  their  ceaseless  watch  may  keep, 

But  cannot  thus  divide 

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POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

'  Such  hearts  as  ours,  and  we  to-night 

Their  malice  will  deride, 
And  in  the  pale  moon's  silver  light 

Together  will  abide. 


'  No  fear  our  present  bliss  shall  blast, 

And  sorrow  we  '11  defy  ; 
Do  thou  forget  the  dreary  past, 

The  dreadful  future,  /.' 

4  Forget  it  ?     Yes,  while  thou  art  by 

I  think  of  nought  but  thee ; 
'Tis  only  when  thou  art  not  nigh 

Remembrance  tortures  me. 

6  But  such  a  lofty  soul  to  find, 

And  such  a  heart  as  thine, 
In  such  a  glorious  form  enshrined, 

*And  still  to  call  thee  mine, 
*Would  be  for  earth  too  great  a  bliss 
*Without  a  taint  of  woe  like  this, 
Then  why  should  I  repine  ?  ' 

January  24,  1845. 


64 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


NIGHT 

I  love  the  silent  hour  of  night, 

For  blissful  dreams  may  then  arise, 

Revealing  to  my  charmed  sight 

What  may  not  bless  my  waking  eyes. 

And  then  a  voice  may  meet  my  ear, 
That  death  has  silenced  long  ago  ; 

And  hope  and  rapture  may  appear 
Instead  of  solitude  and  woe. 

Cold  in  the  grave  for  years  has  lain 
The  form  it  was  my  bliss  to  see  ; 

And  only  dreams  can  bring  again 
The  darling  of  my  heart  to  me. 

Written  early  in  1845, 


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POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


DREAMS 

While  on  my  lonely  couch  I  lie, 

I  seldom  feel  my  self  alone, 
For  fancy  fills  my  dreaming  eye 

With  scenes  and  pleasures  of  its  own. 

Then  I  may  cherish  at  my  breast 
An  infant's  form  beloved  and  fair  ; 

May  smile  and  soothe  it  into  rest, 
With  all  a  mother's  fondest  care. 

How  sweet  to  feel  its  helpless  form 
Depending  thus  on  me  alone  ; 

And  while  I  hold  it  safe  and  warm, 
What  bliss  to  think  it  is  my  own  ! 

And  glances  then  may  meet  my  eyes 
That  daylight  never  showed  to  me  ; 

What  raptures  in  my  bosom  rise 
Those  earnest  looks  of  love  to  see  ! 

To  feel  my  hand  so  kindly  prest, 
To  know  myself  beloved  at  last ; 

To  think  my  heart  has  found  a  rest, 
My  life  of  solitude  is  past ! 

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POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

But  then  to  wake  and  find  it  flown, 
The  dream  of  happiness  destroyed  ; 

To  find  myself  unloved,  alone, 

What  tongue  can  speak  the  dreary  void  ! 

1 A  heart  whence  warm  affections  flow, 
Creator,  Thou  hast  given  to  me  ; 
And  am  I  only  thus  to  know 

How  sweet  the  joys  of  love  would  be  ? 

Spring  1845. 

1  The  last  verse  of  this  poem  was  first  printed  by  Mr.  T.  J.  Wise 
in  Dreams  and  Other  Poems,  1917. 


67 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


IF  THIS  BE  ALL 

O  God  !   if  this  indeed  be  all 
That  Life  can  show  to  me  ; 

If  on  my  aching  brow  may  fall 
No  freshening  dew  from  Thee  ; 

If  with  no  brighter  light  than  this 
The  lamp  of  hope  may  glow 

And  I  may  only  dream  of  bliss, 
And  wake  to  weary  woe  ; 

If  friendship's  solace  must  decay, 
When  other  joys  are  gone, 

And  love  must  keep  so  far  away, 
While  I  go  wandering  on, — 

Wandering  and  toiling  without  gain, 

The  slave  of  others'  will, 
With  constant  care  and  frequent  pain, 

Despised,  forgotten  still ; 

Grieving  to  look  on  vice  and  sin, 

Yet  powerless  to  quell 
The  silent  current  from  within, 

The  outward  torrent's  swell ; 
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POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

While  all  the  good  I  would  impart, 

The  feelings  I  would  share, 
Are  driven  backward  to  my  heart, 

And  turned  to  wormwood  there  ; 

If  clouds  must  ever  keep  from  sight 

The  glories  of  the  Sun, 
And  I  must  suffer  Winter's  blight, 

Ere  Summer  is  begun  : 

If  Life  must  be  so  full  of  care — 

Then  call  me  soon  to  Thee ; 
Or  give  me  strength  enough  to  bear 
My  load  of  misery. 

Anne  Bronte, 
May  20,  1845, 


69 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


CONFIDENCE 

Oppressed  with  sin  and  woe, 

A  burdened  heart  I  bear, 
Opposed  by  many  a  mighty  foe  ; 

But  I  will  not  despair. 

With  this  polluted  heart, 

I  dare  to  come  to  Thee, 
Holy  and  mighty  as  Thou  art ; 

For  Thou  wilt  pardon  me. 

I  feel  that  I  am  weak, 

And  prone  to  every  sin  ; 
But  Thou  who  giv'st  to  those  who  seek, 

Wilt  give  me  strength  within. 

Far  as  this  earth  may  be 

From  yonder  starry  skies, 
Remoter  still  am  I  from  Thee  ; 

Yet  Thou  wilt  not  despise. 

I  need  not  fear  my  foes, 

I  need  not  yield  to  care, 
I  need  not  sink  beneath  my  woes  ; 

For  Thou  wilt  answer  prayer. 
70 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

In  my  Redeemer's  name 

I  give  myself  to  thee  ; 
And  all  unworthy  as  I  am, 

My  God  will  cherish  me. 

Oh,  make  me  wholly  Thine  ! 

Thy  love  to  me  impart, 
And  let  Thy  holy  Spirit  shine 

For  ever  on  my  heart ! 

June  1.  1845, 


This  poem  is  included  in  Dr.    Hunter's  '  Glasgow  Hymnal 
and  others. 


71 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


VIEWS  OF  LIFE 

When  sinks  my  heart  in  hopeless  gloom, 
And  life  can  show  no  joy  for  me  ; 

And  I  behold  a  yawning  tomb, 

Where  bowers  x  and  palaces  should  be  ; 

In  vain  you  talk  of  morbid  dreams  ; 

In  vain  you  gaily  smiling  say, 
That  what  to  me  so  dreary  seems, 

The  healthy  mind  deems  bright  and  gay. 

I  too  have  smiled,  and  thought  like  you, 
But  madly  smiled,  and  falsely  deemed  : 
2  Truth  led  me  to  the  present  view, — 

I  'm  waking  now — 'twas  then  I  dreamed. 

I  lately  saw  a  sunset  sky, 

And  stood  enraptured  to  behold 

Its  varied  hues  of  glorious  dye  : 
First,  fleecy  clouds  of  shining  gold  ; 

Variations  in  MS.  : — 

1  towers. 

2  My  present  thoughts  I  know  are  true. 

72 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

These  blushing  took  a  rosy  hue  ; 

Beneath  them  shone  a  flood  of  green  ; 
Nor  less  divine,  the  glorious  blue 

That  smiled  above  them  and  between. 

I  cannot  name  each  lovely  shade  ; 

I  cannot  say  how  bright  they  shone  ; 
But  one  by  one,  I  saw  them  fade  ; 

And  what  remained  when  they  were  gone  ? 

1  Dull  clouds  remained,  of  sombre  hue, 

And  when  their  borrowed  charm  was  o'er, 
The  azure  sky  had  faded  too, 

That  smiled  so  softly  bright  before. 

So,  gilded  by  the  glow  of  youth, 
Our  varied  life  looks  fair  and  gay  ; 

And  so  remains  the  naked  truth, 
When  that  false  light  is  past  away. 

Why  blame  ye,  then,  my  keener  sight, 
That  clearly  sees  a  world  of  woes 

Through  all  the  haze  of  golden  light 

That  flattering  Falsehood  round  it  throws  ? 

1  Alternative  verse  in  MS.  : — 

Grey  clouds  remained  of  gloomy  hue, 

Their  glory  now  was  o'er  ; 
The  sky  grew  dull  and  charmless  too, 
And  cold  and  dim  the  very  blue, 

That  smiled  so  softly  bright  before. 

K  73 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

When  the  young  mother  smiles  above 
The  first-born  darling  of  her  heart, 

Her  bosom  glows  with  earnest  love, 
While  tears  of  silent  transport  start. 

Fond  dreamer  !  little  does  she  know 
The  anxious  toil,  the  suffering, 

The  blasted  hopes,  the  burning  woe, 
The  object  of  her  joy  will  bring. 

Her  blinded  eyes  behold  not  now 

When,  soon  or  late,  must  be  his  doom  ; 

The  anguish  that  will  cloud  his  brow, 
The  bed  of  death,  the  dreary  tomb. 

As  little  know  the  youthful  pair, 
In  mutual  love  supremely  blest, 

What  weariness,  and  cold  despair, 
Ere  long,  will  seize  the  aching  breast. 

And  even  should  Love  and  Faith  remain, 
(The  greatest  blessings  life  can  show), 

Amid  adversity  and  pain, 

To  shine  throughout  with  cheering  glow ; 

They  do  not  see  how  cruel  Death 

Comes  on,  their  loving  hearts  to  part : 

One  feels  not  now  the  gasping  breath, 
The  rending  of  the  earth-bound  heart, — 

74 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

The  soul's  and  body's  agony, 
Ere  she  may  sink  to  her  repose  : 

The  sad  survivor  cannot  see 

The  grave  above  his  darling  close  ; 

Nor  how,  despairing  and  alone, 
He  then  must  wear  his  life  away  ; 

And  linger,  feebly  toiling  on, 
And  fainting,  sink  into  decay. 

Oh,  Youth  may  listen  patiently, 
While  sad  Experience  tells  her  tale, 

But  doubt  sits  smiling  in  his  eye, 
For  ardent  Hope  will  still  prevail. 

He  hears  how  feeble  Pleasure  dies, 

By  guilt  destroyed,  and  pain  and  woe  ; 

He  turns  to  Hope — and  she  replies, 
*  Believe  it  not — it  is  not  so  !  ' 

4  Oh,  heed  her  not !  '  Experience  says  ; 

'  For  thus  she  whispered  once  to  me  ; 
She  told  me,  in  my  youthful  days, 

How  glorious  manhood's  prime  would  be. 

c  When,  in  the  time  of  early  Spring, 

Too  chill  the  winds  that  o'er  me  passed, 

She  said,  each  coming  day  would  bring 
A  fairer  heaven,  a  gentler  blast. 

75 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

'  And  when  the  sun  too  seldom  beamed, 
The  sky,  o'ercast,  too  darkly  frowned, 

The  soaking  rain  too  constant  streamed, 
And  mists  too  dreary  gathered  round  ; 

*  She  told  me,  Summer's  glorious  ray 
Would  chase  those  vapours  all  away, 

And  scatter  glories  round  ; 
With  sweetest  music  fill  the  trees, 
Load  with  rich  scent  the  gentle  breeze, 

And  strew  with  flowers  the  ground. 

c  But  when,  beneath  that  scorching  ray, 
I  languished,  weary  through  the  day, 

While  birds  refused  to  sing, 
Verdure  decayed  from  field  and  tree, 
And  panting  Nature  mourned  with  me 

The  freshness  of  the  Spring, — 

'  "  Wait  but  a  little  while,"  she  said, 
"  Till  Summer's  burning  days  are  fled  ; 

And  Autumn  shall  restore, 
With  golden  riches  of  her  own. 
And  Summer's  glories  mellowed  down, 

The  freshness  you  deplore." 

'  And  long  I  waited,  but  in  vain  : 
That  freshness  never  came  again, 
Though  Summer  passed  away, 
76 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

Though  Autumn's  mists  hung  cold  and  chill, 
And  drooping  Nature  languished  still, 
And  sank  into  decay. 

*  Till  wintry  blasts  foreboding  blew 
Through  leafless  trees— and  then  I  knew 

That  Hope  was  all  a  dream. 
But  thus,  fond  youth,  she  cheated  me  ; 
And  she  will  prove  as  false  to  thee, 

Though  sweet  her  words  may  seem.' 

Stern  prophet !     Cease  thy  bodings  dire— 
Thou  canst  not  quench  the  ardent  fire 

That  warms  the  breast  of  youth. 
Oh,  let  it  cheer  him  while  it  may, 
And  gently,  gently  die  away — 

Chilled  by  the  damps  of  truth  ! 

Tell  him,  that  earth  is  not  our  rest ; 
Its  joys  are  empty — frail  at  best ; 

And  point  beyond  the  sky. 
But  gleams  of  light  may  reach  us  here  ; 
And  Hope  the  roughest  path  can  cheer ; 

Then  do  not  bid  it  fly  ! 

Though  hope  may  promise  joys,  that  still 
Unkindly  time  will  ne'er  fulfil ; 
Or,  if  they  come  at  all, 

77 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

We  never  find  them  unalloyed, — 
Hurtful  perchance,  or  soon  destroyed, 
They  vanish  or  they  pall ; 

Yet  hope  itself  a  brightness  throws 
O'er  all  our  labours  and  our  woes  ; 

While  dark  foreboding  Care 
A  thousand  ills  will  oft  portend, 
That  Providence  may  ne'er  intend 

The  trembling  heart  to  bear. 

Or  if  they  come,  it  oft  appears, 
Our  woes  are  lighter  than  our  fears, 

And  far  more  bravely  borne. 
Then  let  us  not  enhance  our  doom  ; 
But  e'en  in  midnight's  blackest  gloom 

Expect  the  rising  morn. 

Because  the  road  is  rough  and  long, 
Shall  we  despise  the  skylark's  song, 

That  cheers  the  wanderer's  way  ? 
Or  trample  down,  with  reckless  feet, 
The  smiling  flowerets,  bright  and  sweet, 

Because  they  soon  decay  ? 

Pass  pleasant  scenes  unnoticed  by, 
Because  the  next  is  bleak  and  drear ; 

Or  not  enjoy  a  smiling  sky, 

Because  a  tempest  may  be  near  ? 

78 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

No  !   while  we  journey  on  our  way, 
We  '11  smile  on  x  every  lovely  thing  ; 

And  ever,  as  they  pass  away, 

To  memory  and  hope  we  '11  cling. 

And  though  that  awful  river  flows 
Before  us,  when  the  journey  's  past, 

Perchance  of  all  the  pilgrim's  woes 

Most  dreadful — shrink  not — 'tis  the  last ! 

Though  icy  cold,  and  dark,  and  deep  ; 

Beyond  it  smiles  that  blessed  shore, 
Where  none  shall  suffer,  none  shall  weep, 

And  bliss  shall  reign  for  evermore  ! 

Anne  Bronte, 
June  1845. 


Note  by  the  author. — Wrote  the  first  few  verses  in  February  or 
March,  1844. 

Variation  in  MS.  : — 
1  notice. 


79 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


SONG 

We  know  where  deepest  lies  the  snow, 
And  where  the  frost- winds  keenest  blow 

On  every  mountain  brow. 
We  long  have  known  and  learnt  to  bear 
The  wandering  outlaw's  toil  and  care, 
But  where  we  late  were  hunted,  there 

Our  foes  are  hunted  now. 


1  We  have  their  princely  homes,  and  they 
To  our  wild  haunts  are  chased  away, 

Dark  woods,  and  desert  caves  ; 
And  we  can  range  from  hill  to  hill, 
And  chase  our  vanquished  victors  still, 
Small  respite  will  they  find,  until 

They  slumber  in  their  graves. 


1  Extract  from  Anne  Bronte's  diary,  Thursday,  31st  July  1845  : — 
e  We  have  not  yet  finished  our  Gondal  Chronicles  that  we  began  three 
and  a  half  years  ago.  .  .  .  The  Gondals  are  at  present  in  a  sad  state. 
The  Republicans  are  uppermost,  but  the  Royalists  are  not  quite  over- 
come/ 

80 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

But  I  would  rather  be  the  hare 
That,  crouching  in  its  sheltered  lair, 

Must  start  at  every  sound  ; 
That,  forced  from  cornfields  waving  wide, 
Is  driven  to  seek  the  bare  hillside, 
Or  in  the  tangled  copse-wood  hide, 

Than  be  the  hunter's  hound  ! 

September  3,  1845. 


81 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


SONG 

Come  to  the  banquet ;  triumph  in  your  songs  ! 

Strike  up  the  chords,  and  sing  of  '  Victory  ! ' 
The  oppressed  have  risen  to  redress  their  wrongs, 

The  Tyrants  are  o'erthrown,  the  Land  is  free  ! 
The   Land   is   free  !     Aye,   shout   it   forth   once 

more  ; 
Is  she  not  red  with  her  oppressors'  gore  ? 

We  are  her  champions  ;   shall  we  not  rejoice  ? 

Are  not  the  tyrants'  broad  domains  our  own  ? 
Then  wherefore  triumph  with  a  faltering  voice  ? 

And  talk  of  freedom  in  a  doubtful  tone  ? 
Have  we  not  longed  through  life  the  reign  to  see 
Of  Justice,  linked  with  Glorious  Liberty  ? 

Shout  you  that  will,  and  you  that  can  rejoice 

To  revel  in  the  riches  of  your  foes. 
In  praise  of  deadly  vengeance  lift  your  voice  ; 
Gloat  o'er  your  tyrants'  blood,  your  victims' 
woes. 
J  'd  rather  listen  to  the  skylark's  songs, 
And  think  on  Gondal's  and  my  father's  wrongs. 
82 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

It  may  be  pleasant  to  recall  the  death 

Of  those  beneath  whose  sheltering  roof  you  lie  ; 

But  I  would  rather  press  the  mountain-heath 
With  nought  to  shield  me  from  the  starry  sky. 

And  dream  of  yet  untasted  Victory  ; 

A  distant  hope  ;   and  feel  that  I  am  free  ! 

Oh,  happy  life  !     To  rove  *  the  mountains  wild, 
The  waving  woods,  or  ocean's  heaving  breast, 

With  limbs  unfettered,  conscience  undefiled, 
And  choosing  where  to  wander,  where  to  rest ! 

Hunted,  opposed,  but  ever  strong  to  cope 

With  toils  and  perils  ;   ever  full  of  hope  ! 

'  Our  flower  is  budding.'     When  that  word  was 
heard 
On  desert  shore,  or  breezy  mountain's  brow  ; 
Wherever  said,  what  glorious  thoughts  it  stirred  ! 
'Twas  budding  then  ;    say,  '  Has  it  blossomed 
now  ?  ' 
Is  this  the  end  we  struggled  to  obtain  ? 
Oh,  for  the  wandering  Outlaw's  life  again  ! 

A.  B.,  September  4,  1845. 

1  ( range '  in  original  manuscript. 


83 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


VANITAS  VANITATUM,  OMNIA  VANITAS 

In  all  we  do,  and  hear,  and  see, 
Is  restless  Toil  and  Vanity. 
While  yet  the  rolling  earth  abides, 
Men  come  and  go  like  ocean  tides  ; 

And  ere  one  generation  dies, 
Another  in  its  place  shall  rise  ; 
That,  sinking  soon  into  the  grave, 
Others  succeed,  like  wave  on  wave  ; 

And  as  they  rise,  they  pass  away. 
The  sun  arises  every  day, 
And  hastening  onward  to  the  West, 
He  nightly  sinks,  but  not  to  rest  : 

Returning  to  the  eastern  skies, 
Again  to  light  us,  he  must  rise. 
And  still  the  restless  wind  comes  forth, 
Now  blowing  keenly  from  the  North  ; 

Now  from  the  South,  the  East,  the  West, 
For  ever  changing,  ne'er  at  rest. 
The  fountains,  gushing  from  the  hills, 
Supply  the  ever-running  rills  ; 
84 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

The  thirsty  rivers  drink  their  store, 
And  bear  it  rolling  to  the  shore, 
But  still  the  ocean  craves  for  more. 
Tis  endless  labour  everywhere  ! 
Sound  cannot  satisfy  the  ear, 

Light  cannot  fill  the  craving  eye, 
Nor  riches  half  our  wants  supply,1 
Pleasure  but  doubles  future  pain, 
And  joy  brings  sorrow  in  her  train  ; 

Laughter  is  mad,  and  reckless  mirth — 
What  does  she  in  this  weary  earth  ? 
Should  Wealth,  or  Fame,  our  Life  employ, 
Death  comes,  our  labour  to  destroy  ; 

To  snatch  the  untasted  cup  away, 
For  which  we  toiled  so  many  a  day. 
What,  then,  remains  for  wretched  man  ? 
To  use  life's  comforts  while  he  can  ; 

Enjoy  the  blessings  Heaven  bestows  ; 
Assist  his  friends,  forgive  his  foes  ; 
Trust  God,  and  keep  His  statutes  still, 
Upright  and  firm,  through  good  and  ill ; 

1  '  Nor  riches  happiness  supply/  in  one  MS. 

85 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

Thankful  for  all  that  God  has  given, 
Fixing  his  firmest  hopes  on  Heaven  ; 
Knowing  that  earthly  joys  decay, 
But  hoping  through  the  darkest  day. 

Anne  Bronte, 

September  4,  1845. 


86 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


STANZAS 

Oh,  weep  not,  love  !  each  tear  that  springs 

In  those  dear  eyes  of  thine, 
To  me  a  keener  suffering  brings 

Than  if  they  flowed  from  mine. 

And  do  not  droop  !   however  drear 

The  fate  awaiting  thee  ; 
For  my  sake  combat  pain  and  care, 

And  cherish  life  for  me  ! 

I  do  not  fear  thy  love  will  fail ; 

Thy  faith  is  true,  I  know  ; 
But,  oh,  my  love  !  thy  strength  is  frail 

For  such  a  life  of  woe. 

Were  't  not  for  this,  I  well  could  trace 
(Though  banished  long  from  thee) 

Life's  rugged  path,  and  boldly  face 
The  storms  that  threaten  me. 

Fear  not  for  me — I  've  steeled  my  mind 

Sorrow  and  strife  to  greet ; 
Joy  with  my  love  I  leave  behind, 

Care  with  my  friends  I  meet. 

87 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

A  mother's  sad,  reproachful  eye, 

A  father's  scowling  brow — 
But  he  may  frown  and  she  may  sigh  : 

I  will  not  break  my  vow  ! 

I  love  my  mother,  I  revere 

My  sire,  but  fear  x  not  me — 
Believe  that  Death  alone  can  tear 

This  faithful  heart  from  thee. 

Zerona. 
A.  Bronte. 

October  1,  1845. 


1  'doubt*  in  one  MS.,  in  which  the  title  of  the  poem  is  'Parting 
address  from  Z.  L.  to  A.  E.,'  and  the  name  'Zerona'  is  given  at  the 
end  of  the  poem. 


88 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


THE  PENITENT  1 

I  mourn  with  thee,  and  yet  rejoice 
That  thou  shouldst  sorrow  so  ; 

With  angel  choirs  I  join  my  voice 
To  bless  the  sinner's  woe. 

Though  friends  and  kindred  turn  away, 
And  laugh  thy  grief  to  scorn  ; 

I  hear  the  great  Redeemer  say, 
6  Blessed  are  ye  that  mourn.' 

Hold  on  thy  course,  nor  deem  it  strange 
That  earthly  cords  are  riven  : 

Man  may  lament  the  wondrous  change, 
But  '  there  is  joy  in  Heaven  !  ' 


1845. 


In  the  original  MS.   this  poem  has  no  title,  but  is  headed 
'  Fragment,  1845.' 


M  89 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


THE  ARBOUR 

I  'll  rest  me  in  this  sheltered  bower, 
And  look  upon  the  clear  blue  sky 

That  smiles  upon  me  through  the  trees, 
Which  stand  so  thickly  clustering  by  ; 

And  view  their  green  and  glossy  leaves, 
All  glistening  in  the  sunshine  fair  ; 

And  list  the  rustling  of  their  boughs, 
So  softly  whispering  through  the  air. 

And  while  my  ear  drinks  in  the  sound, 
My  winged  soul  shall  fly  away ; 

Reviewing  long  departed  years 

As  one  mild,  beaming,  autumn  day ; 

And  soaring  on  to  future  scenes, 

Like  hills  and  woods,  and  valleys  green, 

All  basking  in  the  summer's  sun, 
But  distant  still,  and  dimly  seen. 

Oh,  list !   'tis  summer's  very  breath 
That  gently  shakes  the  rustling  trees — 

But  look  !  the  snow  is  on  the  ground — 
How  can  I  think  of  scenes  like  these  ? 

90 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

'Tis  but  the  frost  that  clears  the  air, 
And  gives  the  sky  that  lovely  blue  ; 

They  're  smiling  in  a  winter's  sun, 
Those  evergreens  of  sombre  hue. 

And  winter's  chill  is  on  my  heart — 
How  can  I  dream  of  future  bliss  ? 

How  can  my  spirit  soar  away, 

Confined  by  such  a  chain  as  this  ? 

Undated,  c.  1845. 
Published  in  1846. 


91 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


MUSIC  ON  CHRISTMAS  MORNING 

Music  I  love — but  never  strain 
Could  kindle  raptures  so  divine, 

So  grief  assuage,  so  conquer  pain, 

And  rouse  this  pensive  heart  of  mine — 

As  that  we  hear  on  Christmas  morn 

Upon  the  wintry  breezes  borne. 

Though  Darkness  still  her  empire  keep, 
And  hours  must  pass,  ere  morning  break ; 

From  troubled  dreams,  or  slumbers  deep, 
That  music  kindly  bids  us  wake  : 

It  calls  us,  with  an  angel's  voice, 

To  wake,  and  worship,  and  rejoice  ; 

To  greet  with  joy  the  glorious  morn, 
Which  angels  welcomed  long  ago, 

When  our  redeeming  Lord  was  born, 
To  bring  the  light  of  Heaven  below  ; 

The  Powers  of  Darkness  to  dispel, 

And  rescue  Earth  from  Death  and  Hell. 

While  listening  to  that  sacred  strain, 
My  raptured  spirit  soars  on  high ; 
92 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

I  seem  to  hear  those  songs  again 

Resounding  through  the  open  sky, 
That  kindled  such  divine  delight, 
In  those  who  watched  their  flocks  by  night. 

With  them  I  celebrate  His  birth — 

Glory  to  God  in  highest  Heaven, 
Good-will  to  men,  and  peace  on  earth, 

To  us  a  Saviour-king  is  given  ; 
Our  God  is  come  to  claim  His  own, 
And  Satan's  power  is  overthrown  ! 

A  sinless  God,  for  sinful  men, 

Descends  to  suffer  and  to  bleed  ; 
Hell  must  renounce  its  empire  then  ; 

The  price  is  paid,  the  world  is  freed, 
And  Satan's  self  must  now  confess 
That  Christ  has  earned  a  Right  to  bless  : 

Now  holy  Peace  may  smile  from  Heaven, 
And  heavenly  Truth  from  earth  shall  spring  ; 

The  captive's  galling  bonds  are  riven, 
For  our  Redeemer  is  our  King  ; 

And  He  that  gave  His  blood  for  men 

Will  lead  us  home  to  God  again. 

Undated,  c.  1845. 
Published  in  1846. 


93 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


THERE  LET  THY  BLEEDING  BRANCH 
ATONE 

There  let  thy  bleeding  branch  atone 

For  every  torturing  tear. 
Shall  my  young  sins,  my  sins  alone, 

Be  everlasting  here  ? 

Who  bade  thee  keep  that  carved  name 

A  pledge  for  memory  ? 
As  if  oblivion  ever  came 

To  breathe  its  bliss  on  me  ; 

As  if  through  all  the  'wildering  maze 

Of  mad  hours  left  behind 
I  once  forgot  the  early  days 

That  thou  wouldst  call  to  mind. 

Undated,  c.  1845. 


The  MS.  of  the  above  poem  was  found  amongst  some  MSS.  of  un- 
published poems  by  Emily  Bronte.  It  is  unsigned  and  in  the  minute 
characters  resembling  Emily  Bronte's  microscopic  writing,  and  was 
first  published  as  a  poem  by  her.  In  Bronte  Poems,  1915,  it  was  first 
printed  as  a  poem  by  Anne  Bronte. 


94 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


OH,  THEY  HAVE  ROBBED  ME  OF 
THE  HOPE 

Oh,  they  have  robbed  me  of  the  hope 

My  spirit  held  so  dear  ; 
They  will  not  let  me  hear  that  voice 

My  soul  delights  to  hear. 

They  will  not  let  me  see  that  face 

I  so  delight  to  see  ; 
And  they  have  taken  all  thy  smiles, 

And  all  thy  love  from  me. 

Well,  let  them  seize  on  all  they  can  ; — 

One  treasure  still  is  mine, — 
A  heart  that  loves  to  think  on  thee, 

And  feels  the  worth  of  thine. 

Undated,  c.  1845, 


95 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


DOMESTIC  PEACE 

Why  should  such  gloomy  silence  reign, 
And  why  is  all  the  house  so  drear, 

When  neither  danger,  sickness,  pain, 
Nor  death,  nor  want,  has  entered  here  ? 

We  are  as  many  as  we  were 

That  other  night,  when  all  were  gay 
And  full  of  hope,  and  free  from  care ; 

Yet  is  there  something  gone  away. 

The  moon  without,  as  pure  and  calm, 
Is  shining  as  that  night  she  shone  ; 

But  now,  to  us,  she  brings  no  balm, 
For  something  from  our  hearts  is  gone. 

Something  whose  absence  leaves  a  void — 
A  cheerless  want  in  every  heart ; 

Each  feels  the  bliss  of  all  destroyed, 

And  mourns  the  change— but  each  apart. 

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POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

The  fire  is  burning  in  the  grate 

As  redly  as  it  used  to  burn ; 
But  still  the  hearth  is  desolate, 

Till  mirth,  and  love,  with  peace  return. 


'Twas  peace  that  flowed  from  heart  to  heart, 
With  looks  and  smiles  that  spoke  of  heaven, 

And  gave  us  language  to  impart 

The  blissful  thoughts  itself  had  given. 

Domestic  peace  !  best  joy  of  earth, 
When  shall  we  all  thy  value  learn  ? 

White  angel,  to  our  sorrowing  hearth, 
Return, — oh,  graciously  return  ! 

Monday  night, 
May  11,  1846. 


Written  during  the  time  that  the  brother  of  the  Bronte  sisters, 
Patrick  Branwell  Bronte,  was  disturbing  the  home  at  Haworth  Par- 
sonage by  his  intemperance,  and  '  frantic  folly,'  i.e.  his  declarations  of 
love  for  the  wife  of  his  former  employer. 


N  97 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


MIRTH  AND  MOURNING 

Oh  !   cast  away  your  sorrow  ; — 

A  while,  at  least,  be  gay  ! 
If  grief  must  come  to-morrow, 

At  least  be  glad  to-day  ! 

How  can  you  still  be  sighing 
When  smiles  are  everywhere  ? 

The  little  birds  are  flying 
So  blithely  through  the  air  ; 

The  sunshine  glows  so  brightly 
O'er  all  the  blooming  earth  ; 

And  every  heart  beats  lightly  ; 
Each  face  is  full  of  mirth. 

'  I  always  feel  the  deepest  gloom 
When  day  most  brightly  shines  : 

When  Nature  shows  the  fairest  bloom 
My  spirit  most  repines  ; 

4  For  in  the  brightest  noon-tide  glow 
The  dungeon's  light  is  dim  ; 

Though  freshest  winds  around  us  blow, 
No  breath  can  visit  him. 
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POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

4  If  he  must  sit  in  twilight  gloom, 

Can  I  enjoy  the  sight 
Of  mountains  clad  in  purple  bloom, 

And  rocks  in  sunshine  bright  ? 

6  My  heart  may  well  be  desolate, 

These  tears  may  well  arise, 
While  prison- wall  and  iron-grate 

Oppress  his  weary  eyes.' 

But  think  of  him  to-morrow, 
And  join  your  comrades  now  ; 

That  constant  cloud  of  sorrow 
111  suits  so  young  a  brow. 

Hark  how  their  merry  voices 

Are  sounding  far  and  near  ! 
While  all  the  world  rejoices, 

Can  you  sit  moping  here  ? 

c  When  others'  hearts  most  lightly  bound, 
Mine  feels  the  most  oppressed  ; 

When  smiling  faces  greet  me  round, 
My  sorrow  will  not  rest. 

6  I  think  of  him  whose  faintest  smile 

Was  sunshine  to  my  heart ; 
Whose  lightest  word  could  care  beguile, 

And  blissful  thoughts  impart. 

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POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

6 1  think  how  he  would  bless  that  sun 

And  love  this  glorious  scene  ; 
I  think  of  all  that  has  been  done, 

And  all  that  might  have  been. 

'  Those  sparkling  eyes  that  blessed  me  so 

Are  dim  with  weeping  now  ; 
And  blighted  hope  and  burning  woe 

Have  ploughed  that  marble  brow. 

'  What  waste  of  youth,  what  hopes  destroyed, 

What  days  of  pining  care, 
What  weary  nights  of  comfort  void, 

Art  thou  condemned  to  bear  ! 

'  Oh  !    if  my  love  must  suffer  so, 

And  wholly  for  my  sake, 
What  marvel  that  my  tears  should  flow, 

Or  that  my  heart  should  break  ?  ' 

Zerona. 
Anne  Bronte. 

July  15,  1846. 


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POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


WEEP  NOT  TOO  MUCH,  MY  DARLING 

Weep  not  too  much,  my  darling  ; 

Sigh  not  too  oft  for  me  ; 
Say  not  the  face  of  Nature 

Has  lost  its  charms  for  thee. 
I  have  enough  of  anguish 

In  my  own  breast  alone  ; 
Thou  canst  not  ease  the  burden,  love, 

By  adding  still  thy  own. 

I  know  the  faith  and  fervour 

Of  that  true  heart  of  thine  ; 
But  I  would  have  it  hopeful 

As  thou  wouldst  render  mine. 
At  night  when  I  lie  waking, 

More  soothing  it  will  be 
To  say,  '  She  slumbers  calmly  now,' 

Than  say,  '  She  weeps  for  me.' 

When  through  the  prison-grating 
The  holy  moon-beams  shine, 

And  I  am  wildly  longing 
To  see  the  orb  divine  ; 

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POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

Not  crossed,  deformed,  and  sullied, 

By  those  relentless  bars 
That  will  not  show  the  crescent  moon, 

And  scarce  the  twinkling  stars, 

It  is  my  only  comfort 

To  think,  that  unto  thee 
The  sight  is  not  forbidden, 

The  face  of  Heaven  is  free. 
If  I  could  think  Zerona 

Is  gazing  upward  now  ; 
Is  gazing  with  a  tearless  eye, 

A  calm,  unruffled  brow  ; 

That  moon  upon  her  spirit 

Sheds  sweet,  celestial  balm, — 
The  thought,  like  Angel's  whisper, 

My  misery  would  calm. 
And  when,  at  early  morning, 

A  faint  flush  comes  to  me 
Reflected  from  those  glowing  skies 

I  almost  weep  to  see  ; 

Or  when  I  catch  the  murmur 

Of  gently  swaying  trees, 
Or  hear  the  louder  swelling 
Of  the  soul-inspiring  breeze, 
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POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

And  pant  to  feel  its  freshness 

Upon  my  burning  brow, 
Or  sigh  to  see  the  twinkling  leaf, 

And  watch  the  waving  bough  ; 


If  from  those  fruitless  yearnings 

Thou  wouldst  deliver  me, 
Say  that  the  charms  of  Nature 

Are  lovely  still  to  thee. 
While  I  am  thus  repining, 

Oh  !  let  me  but  believe, 
'  These  pleasures  are  not  lost  to  her,' 

And  I  will  cease  to  grieve. 

Oh  !  scorn  not  Nature's  bounties  : 

My  soul  partakes  with  thee  ! 
Drink  bliss  from  all  her  fountains  : 

Drink  for  thyself  and  me  ! 
Say  not,'  My  soul  is  buried 

In  dungeon  gloom  with  thine  ' ; 
But  say,  '  His  heart  is  here  with  me, 

His  spirit  drinks  with  mine  !  ' 

A E 


Anne  Bronte. 

July  20,  1846. 


103 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


THE  POWER  OF  LOVE 

Love,  indeed  thy  strength  is  mighty, 
Thus  alone  such  strife  to  bear  ; 

Three  'gainst  one,  and  never  ceasing — 
Death,  and  Madness,  and  Despair. 

'Tis  not  my  own  strength  has  saved  me  ; 

Health,  and  hope,  and  fortitude, 
But  for  love,  had  long  since  failed  me  ; 

Heart  and  soul  had  sunk  subdued. 

Often  in  my  wild  impatience 
I  have  lost  my  trust  in  Heaven, 

And  my  soul  has  tossed  and  struggled 
Like  a  vessel  tempest  driven. 

But  the  voice  of  my  beloved 
In  my  ear  has  seemed  to  say — 

'  Be  thou  patient,  if  thou  lov'st  me,' 
And  the  storm  has  passed  away. 

When,  outworn  with  weary  thinking, 
Sight  and  thought  were  waxing  dim, 

And  my  mind  began  to  wander, 
And  my  brain  began  to  swim, 

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POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

Then  those  hands  outstretched  to  save  me 
Seemed  to  call  me  back  again  ; 

Those  dark  eyes  did  so  implore  me 
To  once  more  let  reason  reign, 

That  I  could  not  but  remember 
How  his  hopes  were  fixed  on  me, 

And,  with  one  determined  effort, 
Rose,  and  shook  my  spirit  free. 

When  hope  leaves  my  weary  spirit 

And  all  power  to  hold  it  gone, 
That  loved  voice  so  loudly  prays  me, 

6  For  my  sake,  keep  hoping  on,' 

That,  at  once  my  strength  renewing, 
Though  Despair  had  crushed  me  down, 

I  can  burst  his  bonds  asunder, 
And  defy  his  deadliest  frown. 

When,  from  nights  of  restless  tossing, 
Days  of  gloom  and  pining  care, 

Pain  and  weakness  still  increasing 
Seem  to  whisper,  '  Death  is  near.' 

And  I  almost  bid  him  welcome 
Knowing  he  would  bring  release, 

Weary  of  this  restless  struggle, 
Longing  to  repose  in  peace — 

o  105 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

Then  a  glance  of  fond  approval 
Bids  such  selfish  longings  flee, 

And  a  voice  of  matchless  music 
Murmurs,  '  Cherish  life  for  me.' 

Roused  to  new-born  strength  and  courage, 

Pain  and  grief  I  cast  away  ; 
Health  and  life  I  keenly  follow, 

Mighty  Death  is  held  at  bay. 

Yes,  my  Love,  I  will  be  patient ! 

Firm  and  bold  my  heart  shall  be  ; 
Fear  not,  though  this  life  is  dreary, 

I  can  bear  it  well  for  thee. 

1  Let  our  foes  still  rain  upon  me 

Cruel  wrongs  and  taunting  scorn  ; 
'Tis  for  thee  their  hate  pursues  me, 
And,  for  thee,  it  shall  be  borne  ! 

A.  E.    Anne  Bronte. 
August  13,  1846. 

1  The  last  verse  is  now  printed  for  the  first  time. 


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POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


I  DREAMT  LAST  NIGHT 

I  dreamt  last  night,  and  in  that  dream 
My  boyhood's  heart  was  mine  again  ; 

These  latter  years  did  nothing  seem 
With  all  their  mingled  joy  and  pain  ; 

Their  thousand  deeds  of  good  and  ill, 
Their  hopes  which  time  did  not  fulfil, 
Their  glorious  moments  of  success, 
Their  love  that  closed  in  bitterness, 

Their  hate  that  grew  with  growing  strength, 
Their  darling  projects — dropped  at  length, 
And  higher  aims  that  still  prevail ; 
For  I  must  perish  ere  they  fail, — 

That  crowning  object  of  my  life, 
The  end  of  all  my  toil  and  strife, 
Source  of  my  virtues  and  my  crimes, 

For  which  I  've  toiled  and  striven  in  vain,- 
But  if  I  fail  a  thousand  times, 

Still  I  will  toil  and  strive  again. 

Yet  even  if  this  was  then  forgot, 
My  present  heart  and  soul  were  not ; 

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POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

All  the  rough  lessons  life  has  taught, 
That  are  become  a  part  of  me, 

A  moment's  sleep  to  nothing  brought 
And  made  me  what  I  used  to  be  ; 

And  I  was  roaming  light  and  gay, 
Upon  a  breezy  summer  day, 

A  bold  and  careless  youth  ; 
No  guilty  stain  was  on  my  mind, 
And,  if  not  over  soft  or  kind, 

My  heart  was  full  of  truth. 

It  was  a  well-known  mountain  scene, 
Wild  steeps,  with  rugged  glens  between, 
I  should  have  thirsted  to  explore 
Had  I  not  trod  them  oft  before  ; 

A  younger  boy  was  with  me  there, 
His  hand  upon  my  shoulder  leant ; 

His  heart,  like  mine,  was  free  from  care, 
His  breath  with  sportive  toil  was  spent ; 

For  my  rough  pastimes  he  would  share, 
And  equal  dangers  loved  to  dare, 

Though  seldom  I  would  care  to  vie 
In  learning's  keen  pursuit  with  him  ; — 

I  loved  the  free  and  open  sky 
Better  than  books  and  tutors  grim  ; 
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POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

And  we  had  wandered  far  that  day 
O'er  that  forbidden  ground  away  : 
Ground,  to  our  rebel  feet  how  dear, — 
Danger  and  freedom  both  were  there  ! — 
Had  climbed  the  steep  and  coursed  the  dale, 
Until  his  strength  began  to  fail. 


He  bade  me  pause  and  breathe  awhile, 
But  spoke  it  with  a  happy  smile  ; 
His  lips  were  parted  to  inhale 
The  breeze  that  swept  the  ferny  dale, 

And  chased  the  clouds  across  the  sky 
And  waved  his  locks  in  passing  by, 
And  fanned  my  cheek — so  real  did  seem 
This  strange,  untrue,  but  truth-like  dream. 

And  as  we  stood,  I  laughed  to  see 

His  fair  young  cheek  so  brightly  glow  ; 

He  turned  his  sparkling  eyes  to  me 

With  looks  no  painter's  art  could  show, 

Nor  words  portray,  but  earnest  mirth, 
And  truthful  love  I  there  descried, 

And,  while  I  thought  upon  his  worth, 
My  bosom  glowed  with  joy  and  pride. 

109 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

I  could  have  kissed  his  forehead  fair, 
I  could  have  clasped  him  to  my  heart, 

But  tenderness  with  me  was  rare, 
And  I  must  take  a  rougher  part ; 

I  seized  him  in  my  boisterous  mirth, 

I  bore  him  struggling  to  the  earth, 

And  grappling,  strength  for  strength,  we  strove, 

He  half  in  wrath,  I  all  for  love. 

But  I  gave  o'er  that  strife  at  length, 
Ashamed  of  my  superior  strength, 
The  rather  that  I  marked  his  eye 
Kindle  as  if  a  change  were  nigh. 

We  paused  to  breathe  a  little  space, 

Reclining  on  the  heather-brae  ; 
But  still  I  gazed  upon  his  face, 

To  watch  the  shadow  pass  away. 

I  grasped  his  hand,  and  it  had  fled  : 
A  smile,  a  laugh,  and  all  was  well ; 

Upon  my  breast  he  leant  his  head, 
And  into  graver  talk  we  fell, — 

More  serious,  yet  so  blest  did  seem 

That  calm  communion  then, 
That,  when  I  found  it  but  a  dream, 

I  longed  to  sleep  again. 

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POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

At  first  remembrance  slowly  woke, 

Surprise,  regret,  successive  rose, 
That  Love's  strong  cords  should  thus  be  broke 

And  dearest  friends  turn  deadliest  foes. 

Then,  like  a  cold,  o'erwhelming  flood 

Upon  my  soul  it  burst ; — 
This  heart  had  thirsted  for  his  blood, 

This  hand  allayed  that  thirst ! 

These  eyes  had  watched,  without  a  tear, 

His  dying  agony  ; 
These  ears,  unmoved,  had  heard  his  prayer, 
This  tongue  had  cursed  him  suffering  there, 

And  mocked  him  bitterly  ! 

Unwonted  weakness  o'er  me  crept ; 
I  sighed— nay,  weaker  still— I  wept ! 
Wept  like  a  woman  o'er  the  deed 

I  had  been  proud  to  do  ; 
As  I  had  made  his  bosom  bleed, 

My  own  was  bleeding  too. 

Back,  foolish  tears  !   the  man  I  slew 

Was  not  the  boy  I  cherished  so  ; 
And  that  young  arm  that  clasped  the  friend 

Was  not  the  same  that  stabbed  the  foe  ; 
By  time  and  adverse  thoughts  estranged, 
And  wrongs  and  vengeance,  both  were  changed. 

Ill 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

Repentance  now  were  worse  than  vain  : 
Time's  current  cannot  backward  run  ; 

And,  be  the  action  wrong  or  right, 
It  is  for  ever  done. 


*Then  reap  the  fruits — I  've  said  his  death 
Should  be  my  Country's  gain  : 
If  not— then  I  have  spent  my  breath 
And  spilt  his  blood  in  vain  ! 

And  I  have  laboured  hard  and  long, 

But  little  good  obtained  ; 
My  foes  are  many  yet,  and  strong ; 

Not  half  the  battle 's  gained  ; 

For,  still,  the  greater  deeds  I  Ve  done, 

The  more  I  have  to  do  ; 
The  faster  I  can  journey  on, 

The  farther  I  must  go. 

If  Fortune  favoured  for  a  while, 
I  could  not  rest  beneath  her  smile, 

Nor  triumph  in  success  ; 
When  I  have  gained  one  river's  shore 
A  wilder  torrent,  stretched  before, 
Defies  me  with  its  deafening  roar, 

And  onward  I  must  press. 

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POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

And  much  I  doubt  this  work  of  strife 
In  blood  and  death  begun, 

Will  call  for  many  a  victim  more 
Before  the  cause  is  won. 


Well !   my  own  life  I  'd  freely  give 
Ere  I  would  fail  in  my  design  ; 

The  cause  must  prosper  if  I  live, 
And  I  will  die  if  it  decline. 

Advanced  thus  far  I  '11  not  recede, 

Whether  to  vanquish  or  to  bleed  ; 

Onward,  unchecked,  I  must  proceed, 
Be  Death,  or  Victory,  mine  ! 

September  12,  1846. 
150  lines. 
E.  Z. 


*  The  last  31  lines  are  now  printed  for  the  first  time.    The  remainder 
of  the  poem  first  appeared  in  Bronte  Poems,  1915. 


113 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


THE  LOVER 

Gloomily  the  clouds  are  sailing 

O'er  the  dimly  moonlit  sky  ; 
Dolefully  the  wind  is  wailing, 

Not  another  sound  is  nigh. 

Only  I  can  hear  it  sweeping 

Heath-clad  hill  and  woodland  dale  ; 

And  at  times  the  night's  sad  weeping 
Sounds  above  its  dying  wail. 

Now  the  struggling  moonbeams  glimmer, 
Now  the  shadows  deeper  fall, 

Till  the  dim  light  waxing  dimmer 
Scarce  reveals  yon  stately  hall. 

All  beneath  its  roof  are  sleeping ; 

Such  a  silence  reigns  around, 
I  can  hear  the  cold  rain  steeping 

Dripping  roof  and  plashy  ground. 

No  !  not  all  are  wrapped  in  slumber  : 
At  yon  chamber  window  stands 

One  whose  years  are  few  in  number, 
Sorrow  marks  his  clasped  hands. 

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POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

From  the  open  casement  bending 

He  surveys  the  murky  skies  ; 
Dreary  sighs  his  bosom  rending, 

Hot  tears  gushing  from  his  eyes. 

6  Now  that  Autumn's  charms  are  dying, 
Summer's  glories  long  since  gone, 

Faded  leaves  on  damp  earth  lying, 
Hoary  Winter  striding  on — 

6  'Tis  no  marvel  skies  are  lowering, 
Winds  are  moaning  thus  around, 

And  cold  rain  with  ceaseless  pouring 

Swells  the  stream  and  swamps  the  ground.' 

But  such  wild,  such  bitter,  grieving 
Fits  not  slender  boys  like  thee  ; 

Those  deep  sighs  should  not  be  heaving 
Breasts  so  young  as  thine  must  be. 

Life  with  thee  is  only  springing, 

Summer  in  thy  pathway  lies  ; 
Every  day  is  nearer  bringing 

June's  bright  flowers  and  glowing  skies. 

Ah,  he  sees  no  brighter  morrow  ! 

He  is  not  too  young  to  prove 
All  the  pain  and  all  the  sorrow 
That  attend  the  steps  of  love. 

October  1846. 
115 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


SEVERED  AND  GONE 

Severed  and  gone,  so  many  years, 
And  art  thou  still  so  dear  to  me, 

That  throbbing  heart  and  burning  tears 
Can  witness  how  I  clung  to  thee  ? 

I  know  that  in  the  narrow  tomb 
The  form  I  loved  was  buried  deep, 

And  left  in  silence  and  in  gloom 
To  slumber  out  its  dreamless  sleep. 

*I  know  the  corner  where  it  lies 
Is  but  a  dreary  place  of  rest : 
The  charnel  moisture  never  dries 

From  the  dark  flagstone  o'er  its  breast. 

*For  there  the  sunbeams  never  shine, 
Nor  ever  breathes  the  freshening  air  : 
But  not  for  this  do  I  repine, 
For  my  beloved  is  not  there. 

*Ah,  no  !   I  do  not  think  of  thee 
As  festering  there  in  slow  decay  : 

'Tis  this  sole  thought  oppresses  me, 
That  thou  art  gone  so  far  away. 

116 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

For  ever  gone.     And  I,  by  night 

Have  prayed,  within  my  silent  room, 

That  Heaven  would  grant  a  burst  of  light 
Its  cheerless  darkness  to  illume, 

And  give  thee  to  my  longing  eyes 
A  moment,  as  thou  shinest  now, 

Fresh  from  thy  mansion  in  the  skies, 
With  all  its  glory  on  thy  brow. 

Wild  was  the  wish,  intense  the  gaze 

I  fixed  upon  the  murky  air, 
Expectant  that  a  kindling  blaze 

Would  strike  my  raptured  vision  there, — 

A  shape  these  human  nerves  would  thrill, 

A  majesty  that  might  appal, 
Did  not  thy  earthly  likeness  still 

Gleam  softly,  gladly  through  it  all. 

False  hope  !   vain  prayer  !     It  might  not  be 
That  thou  shouldst  visit  earth  again  ; 

I  called  on  heaven — I  called  on  thee — 
And  watched,  and  waited,  all  in  vain  ! 

*Had  I  one  treasured  lock  of  thine, 

How  it  would  bless  these  longing  eyes  ! 
Or  if  thy  pictured  form  were  mine, 

What  gold  should  rob  me  of  the  prize  ? 

117 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

A  few  cold  words  on  yonder  stone, 
A  corpse  as  cold  as  they  can  be  ; 

Vain  words  and  mouldering  dust,  alone, — 
Can  this  be  all  that 's  left  of  thee  ? 

Ah,  no  !   thy  spirit  lingers  still 

Where'er  thy  sunny  smile  was  seen  ; 

There  's  less  of  darkness,  less  of  chill 
On  earth,  than  if  thou  hadst  not  been. 

*Thou  breathest  in  my  bosom  yet, 
And  dwellest  in  my  beating  heart ; 
And  while  I  cannot  quite  forget, 

Thou,  darling,  canst  not  quite  depart. 

Life  seems  more  sweet  that  thou  didst  live, 
And  men  more  true  that  thou  wert  one  ; 

Nothing  is  lost  that  thou  didst  give, 
Nothing  destroyed  that  thou  hast  done. 

April  1847. 

Note. — The  five  verses  marked  with  an  asterisk  (*)  Mere  first  printed 
by  Mr.  T.  J.  Wise  in  Dreams  and  Other  Poems,  1917. 


118 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


THE  THREE  GUIDES 

Spirit  of  Earth  !  thy  hand  is  chill : 

I  've  felt  its  icy  clasp  ; 
And,  shuddering,  I  remember  still 

That  stony-hearted  grasp. 
Thine  eye  bids  love  and  joy  depart  : 

Oh,  turn  its  gaze  from  me  ! 
It  presses  down  my  shrinking  heart ; 

I  will  not  walk  with  thee  ! 

c  Wisdom  is  mine,'  I  've  heard  thee  say  : 

'  Beneath  my  searching  eye 
All  mist  and  darkness  melt  away, 

Phantoms  and  fables  fly. 
Before  me  truth  can  stand  alone, 

The  naked,  solid  truth  ; 
And  man  matured  my  worth  will  own, 

If  I  am  shunned  by  youth. 

'  Firm  is  my  tread,  and  sure  though  slow  ; 

My  footsteps  never  slide  ; 
And  he  that  follows  me  shall  know 

I  am  the  surest  guide.' 

119 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

Thy  boast  is  vain  ;   but  were  it  true 
That  thou  couldst  safely  steer 

Life's  rough  and  devious  pathway  through, 
Such  guidance  I  should  fear. 

• 

How  could  I  bear  to  walk  for  aye, 

With  eyes  to  earthward  prone, 
O'er  trampled  weeds  and  miry  clay, 

And  sand  and  flinty  stone  ; 
Never  the  glorious  view  to  greet 

Of  hill  and  dale  and  sky ; 
To  see  that  Nature's  charms  are  sweet, 

Or  feel  that  Heaven  is  nigh  ? 

If  in  my  heart  arose  a  spring, 

A  gush  of  thought  divine, 
At  once  stagnation  thou  wouldst  bring 

With  that  cold  touch  of  thine. 
If,  glancing  up,  I  sought  to  snatch 

But  one  glimpse  of  the  sky, 
My  baffled  gaze  would  only  catch 

Thy  heartless,  cold  grey  eye. 

If  to  the  breezes  wandering  near 

I  listened  eagerly, 
And  deemed  an  angel's  tongue  to  hear 

That  whispered  hope  to  me, 
120 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

That  heavenly  music  would  be  drowned 

In  thy  harsh,  droning  voice  ; 
Nor  inward  thought,  nor  sight,  nor  sound 

Might  my  sad  soul  rejoice. 

Dull  is  thine  ear,  unheard  by  thee 

The  still,  small  voice  of  Heaven  ; 
Thine  eyes  are  dim  and  cannot  see 

The  helps  that  God  has  given. 
There  is  a  bridge  o'er  every  flood 

Which  thou  canst  not  perceive  ; 
A  path  through  every  tangled  wood, 

But  thou  wilt  not  believe. 

Striving  to  make  thy  way  by  force, 

Toil-spent  and  bramble-torn, 
Thou  'It  fell  the  tree  that  checks  thy  course 

And  burst  through  brier  and  thorn  : 
And,  pausing  by  the  river's  side, 

Poor  reasoner  !  thou  wilt  deem, 
By  casting  pebbles  in  its  tide, 

To  cross  the  swelling  stream. 

Right  through  the  flinty  rock  thou  'It  try 

Thy  toilsome  way  to  bore, 
Regardless  of  the  pathway  nigh 

That  would  conduct  thee  o'er. 

q  121 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

Not  only  art  thou,  then,  unkind, 

And  freezing  cold  to  me, 
But  unbelieving,  deaf,  and  blind  : 

I  will  not  walk  with  thee  ! 


Spirit  of  Pride  !  thy  wings  are  strong, 

Thine  eyes  like  lightning  shine  ; 
Ecstatic  joys  to  thee  belong, 

And  powers  almost  divine. 
But  'tis  a  false,  destructive  blaze 

Within  those  eyes  I  see  ; 
Turn  hence  their  fascinating  gaze  ; 

I  will  not  follow  thee  ! 

c  Coward  and  fool !  '  thou  may'st  reply, 
'  Walk  on  the  common  sod  ; 
Go,  trace  with  timid  foot  and  eye 

The  steps  by  others  trod. 
'Tis  best  the  beaten  path  to  keep, 

The  ancient  faith  to  hold  ; 
To  pasture  with  thy  fellow-sheep, 
And  lie  within  the  fold. 

1  Cling  to  the  earth,  poor  grovelling  worm  ; 

'Tis  not  for  thee  to  soar 
Against  the  fury  of  the  storm, 

Amid  the  thunder's  roar  ! 
122 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

There  's  glory  in  that  daring  strife 
Unknown,  undreamt  by  thee  ; 

There  's  speechless  rapture  in  the  life 
Of  those  who  follow  me.' 


Yes,  I  have  seen  thy  votaries  oft, 

Upheld  by  thee  their  guide, 
In  strength  and  courage  mount  aloft 

The  steepy  mountain-side  ; 
I  've  seen  them  stand  against  the  sky, 

And  gazing  from  below, 
Beheld  thy  lightning  in  their  eye, 

Thy  triumph  on  their  brow. 

Oh,  I  have  felt  what  glory  then, 

What  transport  must  be  theirs  ! 
So  far  above  their  fellow- men, 

Above  their  toils  and  cares  ; 
Inhaling  Nature's  purest  breath, 

Her  riches  round  them  spread, 
The  wide  expanse  of  earth  beneath, 

Heaven's  glories  overhead  ! 

But  I  have  seen  them  helpless,  dashed 

Down  to  a  bloody  grave, 
And  still  thy  ruthless  eye  has  flashed, 

Thy  strong  hand  did  not  save  ; 

123 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

I  've  seen  some  o'er  the  mountain's  brow 

Sustained  awhile  by  thee, 
O'er  rocks  of  ice,  and  hills  of  snow, 

Bound  fearless,  wild,  and  free. 

Bold  and  exultant  was  their  mien, 

While  thou  didst  cheer  them  on  ; 
But  evening  fell, — and  then,  I  ween, 

Their  faithless  guide  was  gone. 
Alas  !   how  fared  thy  favourites  then — 

Lone,  helpless,  weary,  cold  ? 
Did  ever  wanderer  find  again 

The  path  he  left  of  old  ? 

Where  is  their  glory,  where  the  pride 

That  swelled  their  hearts  before  ? 
Where  now  the  courage  that  defied 

The  mightiest  tempest's  roar  ? 
What  shall  they  do  when  night  grows  black, 

When  angry  storms  arise  ? 
Who  now  will  lead  them  to  the  track 

Thou  taught'st  them  to  despise  ? 

Spirit  of  Pride  !   it  needs  not  this 

To  make  me  shun  thy  wiles, 
Renounce  thy  triumph  and  thy  bliss, 

Thy  honours  and  thy  smiles  ! 

124 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

Bright  as  thou  art,  and  bold,  and  strong, 
That  fierce  glance  wins  not  me  ; 

And  I  abhor  thy  scoffing  tongue  ; — 
I  will  not  follow  thee  ! 


Spirit  of  Faith  !   be  thou  my  guide, 

Oh,  clasp  my  hand  in  thine, 
And  let  me  never  quit  thy  side  ; 

Thy  comforts  are  divine  ! 
Earth  calls  thee  blind,  misguided  one, — 

But  who  can  show  like  thee 
Forgotten  things  that  have  been  done, 

And  things  that  are  to  be  ? 

Secrets  concealed  from  Nature's  ken, 

Who  like  thee  can  declare  ? 
Or  who  like  thee  to  erring  men 

God's  holy  will  can  bear  ? 
Pride  scorns  thee  for  thy  lowly  mien — 

But  who  like  thee  can  rise 
Above  this  toilsome,  sordid  scene, 

Beyond  the  holy  skies  ? 

Meek  is  thine  eye  and  soft  thy  voice, 

But  wondrous  is  thy  might, 
To  make  the  wretched  soul  rejoice, 

To  give  the  simple  light ! 

125 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

And  still  to  all  that  seek  thy  way 

This  magic  power  is  given, — 
E'en  while  their  footsteps  press  the  clay, 

Their  souls  ascend  to  Heaven. 

Danger  surrounds  them, — pain  and  woe 

Their  portion  here  must  be, 
But  only  they  that  trust  thee  know 

What  comfort  dwells  with  thee  ; 
Strength  to  sustain  their  drooping  powers, 

And  vigour  to  defend, — 
Thou  pole-star  of  my  darkest  hours, 

Affliction's  firmest  friend  ! 

Day  does  not  always  mark  our  way, 

Night's  shadows  1  oft  appal, 
But  lead  me,  and  I  cannot  stray, — 

Hold  me,  I  shall  not  fall ; 
Sustain  me,  I  shall  never  faint, 

How  rough  soe'er  may  be 
My  upward  road — nor  moan,  nor  plaint 

Shall  mar  my  trust  in  thee. 

Narrow  the  path  by  which  we  go, 

And  oft  it  turns  aside 
From  pleasant  meads  where  roses  blow, 

And  peaceful  2  waters  glide  ; 

Variations  in  MS.  : — 

1  terrors.  2  murmuring. 

126 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

Where  flowery  turf  lies  green  and  soft, 

And  gentle  gales  are  sweet, 
To  where  dark  mountains  frown  aloft, 

Hard  rocks  distress  the  feet, — 

Deserts  beyond  lie  bleak  and  bare, 

And  keen  winds  round  us  blow  ; 
But  if  thy  hand  conducts  me  there, 

The  way  is  right,  I  know. 
I  have  no  wish  to  turn  away  ; 

My  spirit  does  not  quail  \ — 
How  can  it  while  I  hear  thee  say, 

'  Press  forward  and  prevail !  ' 

Even  above  the  tempest's  swell 

I  hear  thy  voice  of  love, — 
Of  hope  and  peace,  I  hear  thee  tell, 

And  that  blest  home  above  ; 
Through  pain  and  death  I  can  rejoice, 

If  but  thy  strength  be  mine, — 
Earth  hath  no  music  like  thy  voice, 

Life  owns  no  joy  like  thine  ! 

Spirit  of  Faith,  I  '11  go  with  thee  ! 

Thou,  if  I  hold  thee  fast, 
Wilt  guide,  defend,  and  strengthen  me, 

And  bear  2  me  home  at  last ; 

Variations  in  MS.  : — 

1  fail.  2  bring. 

127 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

By  thy  help  all  things  I  can  do, 
In  thy  strength  all  things  bear, — 

Teach  me,  for  thou  art  just  and  true  ; 
Smile  on  me,  thou  art  fair  ! 

Anne  Bronte. 

August  11,  1847. 

Dr.  James  Martineau  and  Dr.  Hunter  extracted  twenty-four  lines 
from  ( The  Three  Guides '  to  make  a  hymn,  commencing  : 

'  Spirit  of  Faith  !  be  thou  my  guide,' 


128 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


FAREWELL  TO  THEE  !  BUT  NOT 
FAREWELL 

Farewell  to  thee  !  but  not  farewell 
To  all  my  fondest  thoughts  of  thee  : 

Within  my  heart  they  still  shall  dwell ; 
And  they  shall  cheer  and  comfort  me. 

0  beautiful,  and  full  of  grace  ! 

If  thou  hadst  never  met  mine  eye, 

1  had  not  dreamed  a  living  face 
Could  fancied  charms  so  far  outvie. 

If  I  may  ne'er  behold  again 

That  form  and  face  so  dear  to  me, 

Nor  hear  thy  voice,  still  would  I  fain 
Preserve  for  aye  their  memory. 

That  voice,  the  magic  of  whose  tone 
Could  wake  an  echo  in  my  breast, 

Creating  feelings  that,  alone, 

Can  make  my  tranced  spirit  blest. 

R  129 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

That  laughing  eye,  whose  sunny  beam 
My  memory  would  not  cherish  less  ; — 

And  oh,  that  smile  !   whose  joyous  gleam 
No  mortal  language  can  express. 

Adieu  !   but  let  me  cherish  still 

The  hope  with  which  I  cannot  part. 

Contempt  may  wound,  and  coldness  chill, 
But  still  it  lingers  in  my  heart. 

And  who  can  tell  but  Heaven,  at  last, 
May  answer  all  my  thousand  prayers, 

And  bid  the  future  pay  the  past 

With  joy  for  anguish,  smiles  for  tears. 

Undated,  c.  1847. 
Published  in  1848. 


130 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


SELF-COMMUNION 

'  The  mist  is  resting  on  the  hill ; 

The  smoke  is  hanging  in  the  air ; 
The  very  clouds  are  standing  still : 

A  breathless  calm  broods  everywhere. 
Thou  pilgrim  through  this  vale  of  tears, 

Thou,  too,  a  little  moment  cease 
Thy  anxious  toil  and  fluttering  fears, 

And  rest  thee,  for  a  while,  in  peace.5 

6  I  would,  but  Time  keeps  working  still 
And  moving  on  for  good  or  ill  : 

He  will  not  rest  nor  stay. 
In  pain  or  ease,  in  smiles  or  tears, 
He  still  keeps  adding  to  my  years 

And  stealing  life  away. 
His  footsteps  in  the  ceaseless  sound 

Of  yonder  clock  I  seem  to  hear, 
That  through  this  stillness  so  profound 

Distinctly  strikes  the  vacant  ear.1 
For  ever  striding  on  and  on, 

He  pauses  not  by  night  or  day  ; 
And  all  my  life  will  soon  be  gone 

As  these  past  years  have  slipped  away. 

1  Cancelled  reading  : — 

So  keenly  strikes  the  vacant  ear. 

131 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

He  took  my  childhood  long  ago, 
And  then  my  early  youth  ;   and  lo, 

He  steals  away  my  prime  ! 
I  cannot  see  how  fast  it  goes, 
But  well  my  inward  spirit  knows 

The  wasting  power  of  time.' 

c  Time  steals  thy  moments,  drinks  thy  breath, 

Changes  and  wastes  thy  mortal  frame ; 
But  though  he  gives  the  clay  to  death, 

He  cannot  touch  the  inward  flame. 
Nay,  though  he  steals  thy  years  away, 

Their  memory  is  left  thee  still, 
And  every  month  and  every  day 1 

Leaves  some  effect  of  good  or  ill. 
The  wise  will  find  in  Memory's  store 
A  help  for  that  which  lies  before 

To  guide  their  course  aright ; 
Then,  hush  thy  plaints  and  calm  thy  fears  ; 
Look  back  on  these  departed  years, 

And  say,  what  meets  thy  sight  ?  ' 

'  I  see,  far  back,  a  helpless  child, 
Feeble  and  full  of  causeless  fears, 

Simple  and  easily  beguiled 
To  credit  all  it  hears. 

1  Cancelled  reading  : — 

And  every  passing  night  and  day 

132 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

More  timid  than  the  wild  wood-dove, 

Yet  trusting  to  another's  care, 
And  finding  in  protecting  love 

Its  only  refuge  from  despair, — 
Its  only  balm  for  every  woe, 
The  only  bliss  its  soul  can  know  ; — 

Still  hiding  in  its  breast. 
A  tender  heart  too  prone  to  weep, 
A  love  so  earnest,  strong,  and  deep 

It  could  not  be  exprest. 
Poor  helpless  thing  !   what  can  it  do 

Life's  stormy  cares  and  toils  among  ; — 
How  tread  this  weary  desert  through 

That  awes  the  brave  and  tires  the  strong  ? 
Where  shall  it  centre  so  much  trust 1 

Where  truth  maintains  so  little  sway, 
Where  seeming  fruit  is  bitter  dust, 

And  kisses  oft  to  death  betray  ? 


How  oft  must  sin  and  falsehood  grieve 
A  heart  so  ready  to  believe, 

And  willing  to  admire  ? 
With  strength  so  feeble,  fears  so  strong, 
Amid  this  selfish  bustling  throng, 

How  will  it  faint  and  tire  ! 

1  Cancelled  reading  : — 

What  shall  it  do  with  all  that  trust 


133 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

That  tender  love  so  warm  and  deep, 
How  can  it  flourish  here  below  ? 

What  bitter  floods  of  tears  must  steep 
The  stony  soil  where  it  would  grow  ! 

0  earth  !  a  rocky  breast  is  thine — 
A  hard  soil  and  a  cruel  clime, 

Where  tender  plants  must  droop  and  pine, 

Or  alter  with  transforming  time. 
That  soul,  that  clings  to  sympathy, 
As  ivy  clasps  the  forest  tree, 

How  can  it  stand  alone  ? 
That  heart  so  prone  to  overflow 
E'en  at  the  thought  of  other's  woe, 

How  will  it  bear  its  own  ? 
How,  if  a  sparrow's  death  can  wring 

Such  bitter  tear-floods  from  the  eye, 
Will  it  behold  the  suffering 

Of  struggling,  lost  humanity  ? 
The  torturing  pain,  the  pining  grief, 

The  sin-degraded  misery, 
The  anguish  that  defies  relief  ?  ' 

6  Look  back  again — What  dost  thou  see  ? 

6 1  see  one  kneeling  on  the  sod, 

With  infant  hands  upraised  to  Heaven, — * 

1  Cancelled  reading  : — 

With  infant  hands  upheld  to  Heaven, — 

134 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

A  young  heart  feeling  after  God, 

Oft  baffled,  never  backward  driven. 
Mistaken  oft,  and  oft  astray, 
It  strives  to  find  the  narrow  way, 

But  gropes  and  toils  alone  ; 
That  inner  life  of  strife  and  tears, 
Of  kindling  hopes  and  lowering  fears 

To  none  but  God  is  known.1 
'Tis  better  thus ;   for  man  would  scorn 

Those  childish  prayers,  those  artless  cries, 
That  darkling  spirit  tossed  and  torn, 

But  God  will  not  despise  ! 
We  may  regret  such  waste  of  tears  : 

Such  darkly  toiling  misery  ; 
Such  'wildering  doubts  and  harrowing  fears, 

Where  joy  and  thankfulness  should  be  ; 
But  wait,  and  Heaven  will  send  relief. 

Let  patience  have  her  perfect  work  ; 
Lo,  strength  and  wisdom  spring  from  grief, 

And  joys  behind  afflictions  lurk  ! 
It  asked  for  light,  and  it  was  heard  ; 

God  grants  that  struggling  soul  repose 
And,  guided  by  His  holy  word, 

It  wiser  than  its  teachers  grows. 
It  gains  the  upward  path  at  length, 
And  passes  on  from  strength  to  strength, 

1  Cancelled  reading : — 

To  none  on  earth  is  known. 

135 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

Leaning  on  Heaven  the  while  : 
Night's  shades  departing  one  by  one, 
It  sees  at  last  the  rising  sun, 

And  feels  his  cheering  smile. 
In  all  its  darkness  and  distress 

For  light  it  sought,  to  God  it  cried  ; 
And  through  the  pathless  wilderness, 

He  was  its  comfort  and  its  guide.' 

'  So  it  was,  and  so  will  it  be  ; 

Thy  God  will  guide  and  strengthen  thee  ; 

His  goodness  cannot  fail. 
The  sun  that  on  thy  morning  rose 
Will  light  thee  to  the  evening's  close, 

Whatever  storms  assail.' 

8  God  alters  not ;   but  Time  on  me 

A  wide  and  wondrous  change  has  wrought  : 
And  in  these  parted  years  I  see 

Cause  for  grave  care  and  saddening  thought. 
I  see  that  time,  and  toil,  and  truth 

An  inward  hardness  can  impart, — 
Can  freeze  the  generous  blood  of  youth, 

And  steel  full  fast  the  tender  heart.' 

8  Bless  God  for  that  divine  decree  ! — 
That  hardness  comes  with  misery, 

And  suffering  deadens  pain  ; 

136 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

That  at  the  frequent  sight  of  woe 
E'en  Pity's  tears  forget  to  flow, 

If  reason  still  remain  ! 
Reason,  with  conscience  by  her  side, 

But  gathers  strength  from  toil  and  truth  ; 
And  she  will  prove  a  surer  guide 

Than  those  sweet  instincts  of  our  youth. 
Thou  that  hast  known  such  anguish  sore 

In  weeping  where  thou  couldst  not  bless, 
Canst  thou  that  softness  so  deplore — 

That  suffering,  shrinking  tenderness  ? 
Thou  that  hast  felt  what  cankering  care 
A  loving  heart  is  doomed  to  bear, 

Say,  how  canst  thou  regret 
That  fires  unfed  must  fall  away, 
Long  droughts  can  dry  the  softest  clay, 

And  cold  will  cold  beget  ?  ' 

'  Nay,  but  'tis  hard  to  feel  that  chill 

Come  creeping  o'er  the  shuddering  heart. 
Love  may  be  full  of  pain,  but  still, 

'Tis  sad  to  see  it  so  depart, — 
To  watch  that  fire  whose  genial  glow 

Was  formed  to  comfort  and  to  cheer, 
For  want  of  fuel,  fading  so, 

Sinking  to  embers  dull  and  drear, — 
To  see  the  soft  soil  turned  to  stone 
For  lack  of  kindly  showers, — 

s  137 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

To  see  those  yearnings  of  the  breast, 
Pining  to  bless  and  to  be  blest, 
Drop  withered,  frozen  one  by  one, 
Till,  centred  in  itself  alone, 

It  wastes  its  blighted  powers. 

'  Oh,  I  have  known  a  wondrous  joy 

In  early  friendship's  pure  delight, — 
A  genial  bliss  that  could  not  cloy — 

My  sun  by  day,  my  moon  by  night. 
Absence,  indeed,  was  sore  distress, 

And  thought  of  death  was  anguish  keen, 
And  there  was  cruel  bitterness 

When  jarring  discords  rose  between ; * 
And  sometimes  it  was  grief  to  know 

My  fondness  was  but  half  returned. 
But  this  was  nothing  to  the  woe 

With  which  another  truth  was  learned  : — 
That  I  must  check,  or  nurse  apart, 
Full  many  an  impulse  of  the  heart 

And  many  a  darling  thought : 
What  my  soul  worshipped,  sought,  and  prized,2 
Were  slighted,  questioned,  or  despised  ; — 

This  pained  me  more  than  aught. 
And  as  my  love  the  warmer  glowed 

The  deeper  would  that  anguish  sink, 

Cancelled  readings  : — 

1  When  angry  passions  rose  between  ; 

2  For  things  I  worshipped,  sought,  and  prized, 

138 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

That  this  dark  stream  between  us  flowed, 

Though  both  stood  bending  o'er  its  brink  ; 
Until,  at  last,  I  learned  to  bear 

A  colder  heart  within  my  breast ; 
To  share  such  thoughts  as  I  could  share, 

And  calmly  keep  the  rest. 
I  saw  that  they  were  sundered  now, 

The  trees  that  at  the  root  were  one  : 
They  yet  might  mingle  leaf  and  bough, 

But  still  the  stems  must  stand  alone. 
Oh,  love  is  sweet  of  every  kind  ! 

'Tis  sweet  the  helpless  to  befriend, 
To  watch  the  young  unfolding  mind, 

To  guide,  to  shelter,  and  defend  : 
To  lavish  tender  toil  and  care, 

And  ask  for  nothing  back  again, 
But  that  our  smiles  a  blessing  bear 

And  all  our  toil  be  not  in  vain. 
And  sweeter  far  than  words  can  tell 
Their  love  whose  ardent  bosoms  swell 

With  thoughts  they  need  not  hide  ; 
Where  fortune  frowns  not  on  their  joy, 
And  Prudence  seeks  not  to  destroy, 

Nor  Reason  to  deride. 


*  Whose  love  may  freely  gush  and  flow, 
Unchecked,  unchilled,  by  doubt  or  fear, 

139 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

For  in  their  inmost  hearts  they  know 

It  is  not  vainly  nourished  there. 
They  know  that  in  a  kindred  breast 

Their  long  desires  have  found  a  home, 
Where  heart  and  soul  may  kindly  rest,1 
Weary  and  lorn  no  more  to  roam. 

Their  dreams  of  bliss  were  not  in  vain,2 
As  they  love  they  are  loved  again, 
And  they  can  bless  as  they  are  blessed. 

'  Oh,  vainly  might  I  seek  to  show 
The  joys  from  happy  love  that  flow  ! 
The  warmest  words  are  all  too  cold 
The  secret  transports  to  unfold 
Of  simplest  word  or  softest  sigh, 
Or  from  the  glancing  of  an  eye 

To  say  what  rapture  beams  ; 
One  look  that  bids  our  fears  depart, 
And  well  assures  the  trusting  heart ; 
It  beats  not  in  the  world  alone- 
Such  speechless  rapture  I  have  known, 

But  only  in  my  dreams. 

*  My  life  has  been  a  morning  sky 

Where  Hope  her  rainbow  glories  cast 

Cancelled  readings : — 

1  Where  heart  may  bask  and  spirit  rest, 

2  They  have  not  lived  nor  hoped  in  vain, 

140 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

O'er  kindling  vapours  far  and  nigh  : 

And,  if  the  colours  faded  fast, 
Ere  one  bright  hue  had  died  away 

Another  o'er  its  ashes  gleamed  ; 
And  if  the  lower  clouds  were  grey, 

The  mists  above  more  brightly  beamed. 
But  not  for  long  ; — at  length  behold, 

Those  tints  less  warm,  less  radiant  grew  ; 
Till  but  one  speck  of  paly  gold 

Glimmered  through  clouds  of  saddening  hue, 
And  I  am  calmly  waiting  now 

To  see  that  also  pass  away, 
And  leave,  above  the  dark  hill's  brow, 

A  rayless  arch  of  sombre  grey.' 


6  So  must  it  fare  with  all  thy  race 

Who  seek  in  earthly  things  their  joy  : 
So  fading  hopes  lost  hopes  shall  chase,1 

Till  Disappointment  all  destroy. 
But  they  that  fix  their  hopes  on  high 
Shall,  in  the  blue-refulgent  sky, 

The  sun's  transcendent  light, 
Behold  a  purer,  deeper  glow 
Than  these  uncertain  gleams  can  show, 

However  fair  or  bright. 

1  Alternative  reading  : — 

So  lying  hopes  false  hopes  shall  chase, 

141 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

Oh,  weak  of  heart !   why  thus  deplore 

That  Truth  will  Fancy's  dreams  destroy  ? 
Did  I  not  tell  thee,  years  before,1 

Life  was  for  labour,  not  for  joy  ? 
Cease,  selfish  spirit,  to  repine  ; 

O'er  thine  own  ills  no  longer  grieve  ; 
Lo,  there  are  sufferings  worse  than  thine, 

Which  thou  mayst  labour  to  relieve. 
If  Time  indeed  too  swiftly  flies, 
Gird  on  thine  armour,  haste,  arise, 

For  thou  hast  much  to  do  ; — 
To  lighten  woe,  to  trample  sin, 
And  foes  without  and  foes  within 

To  combat  and  subdue. 
Earth  hath  too  much  of  sin  and  pain  : 
The  bitter  cup — the  binding  chain  2 

Dost  thou  indeed  lament  ? 
Let  not  thy  weary  spirit  sink ; 
But  strive— not  by  one  drop  or  link 

The  evil  to  augment. 
Strive  rather  thou,  by  peace  and  joy, 
The  bitter  poison  to  destroy, 

The  tyrant  chain  to  break.3 

1  Alternative  reading  : — 

Did  I  not  tell  thee,  long  before, 

2  Cancelled  reading  : — 

This  bitter  cup — that  binding  chain 

3  Alternative  reading  : — 

The  cruel  bonds  to  break. 

142 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

Oh,  strive  !   and  if  thy  strength  be  small, 
Strive  yet  the  more,  and  spend  it  all l 

For  Love  and  Wisdom's  sake  !  ' 
'  Oh,  I  have  striven  both  hard  and  long,2 
But  many  are  my  foes  and  strong. 
My  gains  are  light — my  progress  slow  ; 
For  hard  's  the  way  I  have  to  go, 
And  my  worst  enemies,  I  know, 

Are  these  within  my  breast ; 
And  it  is  hard  to  toil  for  aye, — 
Through  sultry  noon  and  twilight  grey 

To  toil  and  never  rest.' 

8  There  is  a  rest  beyond  the  grave, 
A  lasting  rest  from  pain  and  sin, 

Where  dwell  the  faithful  and  the  brave  ; 
But  they  must  strive  who  seek  to  win.' 

'  Show  me  that  rest — I  ask  no  more. 
Oh,  drive  these  misty  doubts  away ;  3 
And  let  me  see  that  sunny  shore, 
However  far  away  ! 

Cancelled  readings : — 

1  Oh,  toil  !  and  if  thy  strength  be  small, 

Toil  yet  the  more,  and  spend  it  all 

2  Oh,  I  have  toiled  both  hard  and  long, 
3  Alternative  reading  : — 

Oh,  drive  these  gloomy  mists  away  ; 

143 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

However  wide  this  rolling  sea, 
However  wild  my  passage  be,1 
Howe'er  my  bark  be  tempest-tossed, 

May  it  but  reach  that  haven  fair, 

May  I  but  land  and  wander  there, 
With  those  that  I  have  loved  and  lost ; 
With  such  a  glorious  hope  in  view, 
I  '11  gladly  toil  and  suffer  too. 
Rest  without  toil  I  would  not  ask  ; 
I  would  not  shun  the  hardest  task  ; 
Toil  is  my  glory — Grief  my  gain, 
If  God's  approval  they  obtain.2 
Could  I  but  hear  my  Saviour  say, — 

"  I  know  thy  patience  and  thy  love  ; 
How  thou  hast  held  the  narrow  way, 
For  My  sake  laboured  night  and  day, 

And  watched,  and  striven  with  them  that 
strove ; 
And  still  hast  borne,  and  didst  not  faint," — 

Oh,  this  would  be  reward  indeed  !  ' 

6  Press  forward,  then,  without  complaint ; 
Labour   and   love — and   such   shall   be   thy 
meed.' 

April  17,  1848. 

Cancelled  readings : — 

1  However  bleak  my  passage  be, 

2  Nay,  welcome  labour,  grief,  and  pain 
While  God's  approval  I  can  gain. 

Note  by  the  author. — Begun  in  November  1847. 

144 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


THE  NARROW  WAY 

Believe  not  those  who  say 
The  upward  path  is  smooth,1 

Lest  thou  shouldst  stumble  in  the  way, 
And  faint  before  the  truth. 

It  is  the  only  road 

Unto  the  realms  of  joy  ; 2 
But  he  who  seeks  that  blest  abode 

Must  all  his  powers  employ. 

Bright  hopes  and  pure  delights 
Upon  his  course  may  beam, 

And  there,  amid  the  sternest  3  heights, 
The  sweetest  flowerets  gleam. 

On  all  her  breezes  borne, 

Earth  yields  no  scents  like  those  ; 
But  he  that  dares  not  grasp  the  thorn 

Should  never  crave  the  rose. 

Cancelled  readings : — 

1  The  Heavenward  path  is  smooth, 

2  That  leads  to  perfect  joy  ; 

But  they  who  seek  that  blest  abode 
Must  all  their  powers  employ. 

3  Variation  in  MS.  :   wildest. 

T  145 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

Arm — arm  thee  for  the  fight ! 

Cast  useless  loads  away  ; 
Watch  through  the  darkest  hours  of  night, 

Toil  through  the  hottest  day. 


Crush  pride  into  the  dust, 

Or  thou  must  needs  be  slack ; 

And  trample  down  rebellious  lust, 
Or  it  will  hold  thee  back. 


Seek  not  thy  honour  here  ; 

Waive  pleasure  and  renown  ; 
The  world's  dread  scoff  undaunted  bear, 

And  face  its  deadliest  frown. 


To  labour  and  to  love, 
To  pardon  and  endure, 

To  lift  thy  heart  to  God  above, 
And  keep  thy  conscience  pure  ; 


Be  this  thy  constant  aim, 
Thy  hope,1  thy  chief  delight ; 

What  matter  who  should  whisper  blame, 
Or  who  should  scorn  or  slight  ? 

1  Variation  in  MS.  :  prayer. 

146 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

What  matter,  if  thy  God  approve, 

And  if,  within  thy  breast, 
Thou  feel  the  comfort  of  His  love, 
The  earnest  of  His  rest  ? 

A.  B. 
April  27,  1848. 
40  lines. 


FRAGMENT 

Yes,  I  will  take  a  cheerful  tone, 

And  feign  to  share  their  heartless  glee  ; 

But  I  would  rather  weep  alone 
Than  laugh  amid  their  revelry. 

January  26,  1849. 


147 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


LAST  LINES 

I  hoped,  that  with  the  brave  and  strong, 

My  portioned  task  might  lie  ; 
To  toil  amid  the  busy  throng, 

With  purpose  pure  and  high. 

But  God  has  fixed  another  part, 

And  He  has  fixed  it  well ; 
I  said  so  with  my  bleeding  heart, 

When  first  the  anguish  fell. 

1 A  dreadful  darkness  closes  in 
On  my  bewildered  mind  ; 
Oh,  let  me  suffer  and  not  sin, 
Be  tortured,  yet  resigned. 

1  Shall  I  with  joy  thy  blessings  share 

And  not  endure  their  loss  ? 
Or  hope  the  martyr's  crown  to  wear 
And  cast  away  the  cross  ? 

1  These  two  verses  were  first  printed  in  Bronte  Poems,  edited  by 
A.  C.  Benson,  1915. 

This  poem,  slightly  altered,  may  be  found  in  some  of  the  hymnals 
of  the  churches. 

148 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

Thou,  God,  hast  taken  our  delight,1 

Our  treasured  hope  away  ; 
Thou  bidst  us  now  weep  through  the  night 

And  sorrow  through  the  day. 

These  weary  hours  will  not  be  lost, 

These  days  of  misery, 
These  nights  of  darkness,  anguish-tost, 

Can  I  but  turn  to  Thee. 

2  Weak  and  weary  though  I  lie, 

Crushed  with  sorrow,  worn  with  pain, 
I  may  lift  to  Heaven  mine  eye, 
And  strive  to  labour  not  in  vain  ; 

2  That  inward  strife  against  the  sins 
That  ever  wait  on  suffering 
To  strike  whatever  first  begins  : 

Each  ill  that  would  corruption  bring  ; 

That  3  secret  labour  to  sustain 

With  4  humble  patience  every  blow  ; 

To  gather  fortitude  from  pain, 
And  hope  and  holiness  from  woe. 

1  Emily  Jane  Bronte,  who  had  died  on  December  19,  1848,  a  few 
weeks  before  this  poem  was  written. 

2  These  two  verses  are  now  printed  for  the  first  time. 

3  (  With,'  4  'In/  appear  in  all  previously  printed  versions  of  this 
poem.  The  complete  poem  of  twelve  verses  is  now  printed  for  the 
first  time  as  it  appears  in  the  original  MS. 

149 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 

Thus  let  me  serve  Thee  from  my  heart, 
Whate'er  may  be  my  written  fate  : 

Whether  thus  early  to  depart, 
Or  yet  a  while  to  wait. 

If  thou  shouldst  bring  me  back  to  life, 

More  humbled  I  should  be  ; 
More  wise,  more  strengthened  for  the  strife, 

More  apt  to  lean  on  Thee. 

Should  death  be  standing  at  the  gate, 

Thus  should  I  keep  my  vow  ; 
But,  Lord  !   whatever  be  my  fate, 

Oh,  let  me  serve  Thee  now  ! 

Finished,  January  28,  1849. 


? These  lines  written,  the  desk  was  closed,  the  pen  laid  aside — for 
ever.' — Note  by  Charlotte  Bronte. 


150 


INDEX   TO   TITLES   OF   POEMS 


A  Prayer   . 

A  Reminiscence     . 

A  Word  to  the  '  Elect ' 

An  Orphan's  Lament 

Appeal 

Arbour,  The 

Bluebell,  The 

Call  me  away 
Captain's  Dream,  The 
Captive  Dove,  The 
Confidence 
Consolation,  The  . 
Cowper,  To 

Despondency 
Domestic  Peace 
Doubter's  Prayer,  The 
Dreams 
Dungeon,  The 

Fluctuations 
Fragment  . 

Home 

I  dreamt  last  night 

If  this  be  all 

In  Memory  of  a  Happy  Day  in  February 

Last  Lines 

Lines  composed  in  a  Wood  on  a  Windy  Day 

Lines  written  at  Thorp  Green 

Lover,  The 

Memory     . 


PAGE 

56 
50 
35 
20 
25 
90 

17 

61 

1 
41 
70 
43 
28 

26 
96 
38 
66 
57 

54 

147 

59 

107 
68 
31 

148 
34 
23 

114 

51 


151 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


Mirth  and  Mourning 

Music  on  Christmas  Morning 

Narrow  Way,  The 

Night 

North  Wind,  The . 

Orphan's  Lament,  An 

Parting,  The 
Past  Days  . 
Penitent,  The 
Power  of  Love,  The 
Prayer,  A  . 

Reminiscence,  A    . 

Self-Communion    . 

Self-Congratulation 

Severed  and  gone  . 

Song  :  Come  to  the  banquet ;  triumph  in  your  songs 

Song  :  We  know  where  deepest  lies  the  snow 

Stanzas :  Oh,  weep  not,  love  !  each  tear  that  springs 

Student's  Serenade,  The 

The  Arbour  . 

The  Bluebell 

The  Captain's  Dream 

The  Captive  Dove 

The  Consolation     . 

The  Doubter's  Prayer 

The  Dungeon 

The  Lover . 

The  Narrow  Way 

The  North  Wind 

The  Parting 

The  Penitent 

The  Power  of  Love 

The  Student's  Serenade 

The  Three  Guides 

To  Cowper 

Vanitas  Vanitatum,  Omnia  Vanitas 
Verses  to  a  Child  . 
Views  of  Life 

Word  to  the  '  Elect, 

152 


INDEX   TO   FIRST  LINES 


A  fine  and  subtle  spirit  dwells 

Believe  not  those  who  say 
Blessed  be  Thou  for  all  the  joy    . 
Brightly  the  sun  of  summer  shone 

Call  me  away,  there 's  nothing  here 

Come  to  the  banquet ;  triumph  in  your  songs  ! 

e  Ellen,  you  were  thoughtless  once 
Eternal  Power,  of  earth  and  air  ! 

Farewell  to  thee  !  but  not  farewell 

Gloomily  the  clouds  are  sailing    . 

How  brightly  glistening  in  the  sun 

1  dreamt  last  night,  and  in  that  dream     . 

I  have  gone  backward  in  the  work 

I  have  slept  upon  my  couch 

I  hoped,  that  with  the  brave  and  strong  . 

I  love  the  silent  hour  of  night 

I  mourn  with  thee,  and  yet  rejoice 

I  '11  rest  me  in  this  sheltered  bower 

In  all  we  do,  and  hear,  and  see     . 

Love,  indeed  thy  strength  is  mighty 

Methought  I  saw  him,  but  I  knew  him  not 
Music  I  love — but  never  strain 
My  God  (oh,  let  me  call  Thee  mine 
My  soul  is  awakened,  my  spirit  is  soaring 

O  God  !  if  this  indeed  be  all 
Oh  !  cast  away  your  sorrow 
Oh,  1  am  very  weary 

U 


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148 
65 
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90 
84 

104 

1 
92 
56 
34 

68 
98 
25 


153 


POEMS  BY  ANNE  BRONTE 


Oli,  raise  those  eyes  to  me  again  . 
Oh,  they  have  robbed  me  of  the  hope 
Oh,  weep  not,  love  !  each  tear  that  springs 
Oppressed  with  sin  and  woe 

Poor  restless  dove,  I  pity  thee 

Severed  and  gone,  so  many  years 
She 's  gone  ;  and  twice  the  summer's  sun 
Spirit  of  Earth  !  thy  hand  is  chill 
Sweet  are  thy  strains,  Celestial  Bard 

That  summer  sun,  whose  genial  glow 

That  wind  is  from  the  North  :  I  know  it  well 

The  chestnut  steed  stood  by  the  gate 

The  lady  of  Abyerno's  hall 

c  The  mist  is  resting  on  the  hill    . 

There  let  thy  bleeding  branch  atone 

Though  bleak  these  woods,  and  damp  the  ground 

Though  not  a  breath  can  enter  here 

Tis  strange  to  think  there  was  a  time 

Weep  not  too  much,  my  darling  . 
We  know  where  deepest  lies  the  snow 
What  though  the  Sun  had  left  my  sky    . 
When  sinks  my  heart  in  hopeless  gloom 
While  on  my  lonely  couch  I  lie    . 
Why  should  such  gloomy  silence  reign    . 

Yes,  I  will  take  a  cheerful  tone    . 
Yes,  thou  art  gone  !  and  never  more 
You  may  rejoice  to  think  yourselves  secure 


11 

95 
87 
70 

41 

116 

20 

119 

28 

23 

3 

5 

8 

131 

94 

43 

57 

45 

101 
80 
54 

72 

m 

96 

147 
50 

35 


Printed  in  Great  Britain  by  T.  and  A.  Constable,  Printers  to  His  Majesty 
at  the  Edinburgh  University  Press 


fV 


*d 


